


A Very Johnlock July

by Avath



Series: A Very Johnlock Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Armylock, Day drinking, Ficlet Collection, Ficlets, Fluff, Holiday, Ice Cream, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, Rain, Reading, Shorts, Smut, Summer, Sunglasses, Sunscreen, Teenlock, Unilock, prompts, tent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:37:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 93
Words: 108,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1880064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avath/pseuds/Avath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets based on summery prompts. One prompt, three authors, three ficlets a day throughout July.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day Drinking - Avath

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Today's prompt is: Day Drinking.
> 
> Check out our completed challenges: A Very Johnlock Christmas and A Very Johnlock Valentines.

  
"Another can, John?"   
  
"Definitely," John answered, reaching out his hand without looking to accept the can of beer being offered. It was a beautiful day of the rare Sunday variety. He hadn't had to go to lectures the day before and the day after he was going to call in sick. Medical school was hard and he was tired to the bone. He deserved an extra day off like he deserved this third - or was it fourth? - lager. He grunted in thanks when he felt the cool aluminium against his hand.   
  
"Ah, you _fuck_ ," John called, having been sprayed in the face after opening the can. His friend threw his head back and laughed as John angrily wiped his face clean. "Should've fucking known, Stamford. You're a cunt. That they'll allow you to see patients is frightening."  
  
"Oi, all my patients will _love_ my practical jokes. The whoopee cushion in particular will really raise morale after I give someone a death sentence," Mike Stamford said, looking very pleased with himself.  
  
"Cunt," John muttered. He took a long drink of his beer and settled back against the park bench they had adopted as their own for the afternoon.   
  
"That's some language you have, Doctor Watson," Mike said. "Mate, have you decided what you're going to do?" he said after a few moments of silence.  
  
"Yeah. Army," John said. He was bored to tears of London. He was bored to tears of the same four walls that every hospital in the area seemed to share. He was bored to tears of his life. Nothing ever happened to him.  
  
"No?" Mike said, turning to look at him in shock.   
  
John nodded in response and took another drink. He had to get away.   
  
"Jesus," Mike said, leaning back on the bench as if the air had been squeezed out of him.   


"Can I have a beer or should I just lick it off your face?" a dark voice said. John turned to see a tall someone looming over him with what he would describe as judgemental eyes. John's temper instantly prickled; the way the tall, dark someone had phrased the question made it sound like they had offered him a beer that he'd accepted under duress and never delivered.  


"Sure?" Mike said, giving the stranger a look but dipping his hand down a plastic bag and producing a can all the same.

"Thank you," the man said as if the words offended him. He popped it open and took a sip. It looked ridiculous. He seemed more the type to drink out of crystal glasses or antique champagne flutes than the type to drink cheap beer out of the can in a park at just past noon on a Sunday.  


"Not a problem. Have a seat?" Mike asked, gesturing to the empty space beside him on the bench.

The man accepted the invitation wordlessly and sat himself not next to Mike, but next to John. Mike gaped at him and wondered if they had run into a lunatic of some sort. Something didn't seem quite right with this man.  


"I'm Mike. This is John," Mike said.

The man huffed. "Names aren't important. I already know all the important things to know about you. Took me three seconds," he said, sticking his nose in the air. He sighed. "My name is Sherlock," he said as if he was long suffering in the world.  


"What do you mean?" John asked. He urged his temper forward. It felt nice with the beers under his belt. Sometimes it seemed to him that he had forgotten how to feel in the boredom he lived in. There was a fine line between boredom and depression and John toed the line constantly.  


"Well," Sherlock said, straightening himself up with a smirk. "Mike is slowly putting on the pounds. Serious girlfriend, don't get out much anymore. Rather stay in and watch telly. You've stopped exercising because you don't need to keep an attractive physique because you've already mated with someone. You don't even get exercise from sex anymore, do you? It's very obvious from the way you hold your right arm. Big masturbator. You should probably scan your computer for viruses from the amount of porn you watch. You should probably _not_ let your girlfriend see you prefer big chested women. And you, John. How many more beers have you had than your good friend Mike? Double the amount? It's not a party and it's in the middle of the day so you're obviously sedating yourself. And since you're both obviously medical students, I can only assume you're overwhelmed with the course load and need to 'unwind'. Maybe you should drop out altogether if you're not smart enough to keep up," Sherlock said. He leaned back and took a long drink of beer with an air of extreme relief and pleasure. 

 

Silence. Mike gaped in offence and John tried to follow suit but he felt... what _did_ he feel? Intrigued. Amused. Transparent.

"Did I get it right?" Sherlock asked.  


Mike spluttered. "I'm not a _big masturbator_ ," he said, hissing the last two words quietly so others would not hear. Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look and he looked away, muttering something about how you shouldn't look a beer gift horse in the mouth.  


"And you, John? Are you in denial, too?" Sherlock asked.

"No, you're right. I am sedating myself, but I'm not bloody struggling with the course work. Arrogant sod," John said without any venom. It was almost a relief to have the option of pretending taken away from him.  


Mike turned his head slightly toward them in interest. He had no idea John was in need of sedation.

"You sure?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm at the top of my class," John answered dryly.  


Sherlock looked pleased despite his best efforts to keep up his cool exterior. "Why are you sedating yourself?" he asked in interest. He wondered for a moment if those types of questions were allowed in civilised society before he realised he had never considered himself a part of civilised society and, therefore, didn't give even the last big of a toss.  


"Why don't you guess like you did with the other things," John said. He was not willing to show all his cards.

"I wasn't _guessing_. I _never_ guess. I _deduce_. I _see._ I _observe,_ " Sherlock said with a huff.  


John grinned. "Fine. _Deduce_ then, clever clogs. Why am I sedating myself?" he said. It sounded like a challenge and it did not pass Sherlock by.

Sherlock turned his body almost completely to John, knocking knees on the way. He stared the challenge down.  


"Well?" John asked when the constant eye contact became a little uncomfortable and somehow started to feel suggestive.

"I've got connections in Scotland Yard," Sherlock replied after a few more quiet seconds.  


John looked so confused that Sherlock sighed in frustration.

"I'll text you later. Have you read in the news papers about the suicides? They're not suicides. They'll come to me for help soon. It won't be long. Even if they have less of a brain than two dung beetles put together, they should be realising they are out of their depth by now," Sherlock said. And with that, he dug his hand into John's pocket and sent himself a text so he could save John's number. "Sorry about your brother being an alcoholic. I'd tell you he was on the way to recovery, but we both know that's not true." He put John's phone back in his hand. "I will text you. It will be fun. You'll like it," he said, spelling it out clearly as the look on John's face put his intelligence in question again. He stood up and turned to leave.  


"Wait. Wait," John said, coming to a stand and touching Sherlock on the arm. "Who are you?"

"I told you. My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And you are John. And you're still in denial," Sherlock said.  


"What? No. I told you I'm sedating. I'm not in denial," John said.

Sherlock took half a step forward and loomed in a way that made John feel funny somewhere beneath his belly button. Sherlock ever so slowly leaned in, tilting his head to the side and maintaining eye contact. It took several seconds before their lips met in a soft kiss. John felt like he'd stopped breathing but it was alright because the world seemed painted in colours again.  


Sherlock smirked as he pulled away. "Maybe not so much denial. I'll admit I was wrong on that point," he said. With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered away.

John had the feeling in the pit of his stomach that something momentous had just happened to him. He was right. Later on, John could pinpoint the point time when he had stopped being bored and started to feel alive again.   
  
It had started with an afternoon of irresponsible day drinking.


	2. Day Drinking - golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this challenge, golfechoromeo will be using the daily prompts to write one, complete story. This is the first part.

The sun had already set over the dessert as John stepped onto the plane, making his way to his seat.  Only an 18 hour flight separated him from London, from his home, from his Sherlock.  It would be the early afternoon when he landed after a brief layover.  There was a party planned for his return home on leave, though it was a surprise.  Not for him, but for Sherlock.   
  
It had all been Mrs. Hudson's idea.  John knew when he was coming home on leave, so what would the point be of surprising him with a party?  Sherlock, however, relied on whatever information he was told through both John and Mycroft.  It had been increasingly difficult to avoid Sherlock's question of when John would finally be home again, having to come up with various excuses and reasons why he was being detained.  Increase in patrols, increase in patients, no doctor to step in and relieve him.  But this seemed to work.  Sherlock had believed him and though John felt guilty about lying to him, the look on his face when John arrived home would be worth everything.  

  
What he needed to do was sleep.  What he felt like doing was drinking through his nerves.

John Watson was a soldier of the British Army.  He was a trained and and experienced doctor in the field.  He looked danger in the face bravely.  Confronting his feelings for his best friend and flatmate was another story.   


  
_You need to tell him_ , Mrs. Hudson had written in a letter.  _If anything should happen to you, John Watson, he deserves to know._

With a great effort, John's eyes slid closed and he forced himself to sleep.  When he awoke to the brilliant sun outside of his window blinding him and showering him with afternoon light, he stopped the drinks trolley and asked for a vodka to help calm him. 

\----

"Sherlock Holmes, would you _please_ settle down!" Mrs. Hudson said, watching as Sherlock began to pace around the grass.  _If he only knew what the event was for, he would be far more anxious,_ she thought.  


"I don't want to be here," Sherlock whined.  "It's an event for _Mycroft_.  Why must I be here?  Outside?"  He looked around the large yawn where this work event for Mycroft was to be had, and he frowned at the people who were around him.  Mrs. Hudson had insisted that they get there early, before Mycroft's people arrived.   


"Because this is an important day, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson replied, handing him a glass of champagne.  "Go on.  Take a glass and relax.  Live a little."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow as he took the glass.  "Encouraging day drinking, Mrs. Hudson?  Did you also have one of your herbal soothers as well?"  


"It is _summer_ ," Mrs. Hudson responded.  "We're allowed to be a little lighter in our disciplines."

Sherlock drank the entire glass of champagne in one long sip.  


"Not _that_ light," Mrs. Hudson said under her breath.

Sherlock continued to walk around, avoiding people he did not know (though there weren't that many of them, to his surprise), and wanting to just retreat home and continue the letter he had started writing for John.   


A long black car with tinted windows drove up the road and parked by the edge of the grass.  Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his body away from the vehicle, opting instead to down another glass of champagne.  

 

"Oi! Sherlock!" came Lestrade's voice.  "Aren't you going to going to come over and say hello to the guest of honour?"

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself.  _Just turn around, tell Mycroft that he looks heavier than normal, drink your way throw the rest of those glasses of champagne, and then escape back home_ , he thought to himself.  And with as much resolve as he could muster, Sherlock turned around.

His eyes did not land on Mycroft.  They landed on John.

Mrs. Hudson had been right.  John knew that the instant he saw Sherlock turn around and the look of surprise and sheer joy and disbelief on his face.  He needed to tell him.  How could he keep it inside of him every moment?  Maybe not that day, but he would  Before he returned to Afghanistan, Sherlock would know.

It took everything Sherlock and John had not to run towards each other, mainly because Sherlock could not believe that the person walking towards him was real.  His brain was trying to process how John could be there.  But John was in Afghanistan.  John hadn't told him.  No one had told him.  Somewhere, deep in his mind, he recognised that everyone had organised this for the two of them, but that was overshadowed by John's presence.  Nothing else mattered.   


As they stood in front of each other, John threw caution to the wind and wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock's tall frame.  "I missed you so much, Sherlock," he whispered.  "More than you know."  


"I know," Sherlock whispered back, his body feeling whole again.  As he hugged John back, his empty champagne flute fell to the ground, landing almost gently on the grass as the afternoon sun reflected off it, casting a soft light on the pair of them.


	3. Day Drinking - Anne

Sherlock had never been one for traditions. He despised the terrifying lull of the holidays, abhorred the touching gestures from his family that often accompanied his academic success, and particularly disliked the inexhaustible multitude of traditions he had encountered at university. It seemed like the inane nonsense never stopped. And to make matters worse, people insisted on creating more traditions on top of the existing, societal ones. For example, the Holmes family always ordered Chinese food the day after Christmas dinner, Mummy always brought Sherlock lilies instead of roses after he performed in a violin concert, and the members of the Rugby Team always ran around campus wearing nothing but their pants the day before the first day of finals. It was enough to make the antisocial genius lose his bloody mind.  
  
This most recent tradition didn’t really bother him though. Day drinking. The day after finals ended. John had insisted he join.  
  
And Sherlock had agreed, to everyone’s surprise, including his own.  
  
So here he was, lounging on Mike Stamford’s navy comforter on his third drink, and it was still before noon. Other people were all around him, sandwiching him in, messing up the sheets on the bed, spilling vodka and orange juice on the tired wood floor, and giggling with the naughtiness of the whole business. It was way too early to be tipsy, and yet… Sherlock was. And he had every reason to believe he wasn’t alone.  
  
John was smushed up against Sherlock’s slim frame and enormous arse, happily sipping his drink without a care in the goddamn world. He liked traditions, luxuriated in the feeling of stability that occasionally descended upon him now that he had spent an entire year free from the caustic situation that awaited him back home. Yes, he would have to stay with his parents this summer. He would have to work. He would have to bring in an income. But none of that mattered right now. His face was flushed with drink, his head was swimming just slightly, and Sherlock bloody Holmes was pressed up against his body as more people tried to fit into the tiny dorm room.  
  
“On my lap, Sherlock,” he finally demanded as he attempted to scoot the other boy onto his own body. “That big arse of yours is taking up too much space.”  
  
Yes, John had had even more to drink than Sherlock had. Sherlock could tell that John was on the edge of drunk. But that was what this whole day drinking tradition was about, wasn’t it? Who had started this tradition anyway? Was it another Rugby Team thing? John was constantly imposing rugby traditions on his best mate.  
  
Sherlock said nothing, instead simply picking himself up and plopping his body back down on John’s thighs, leaning back just slightly so the other boy could see over his shoulder.  
  
“Ah, yes. That’s better.” John sighed, taking up the newly emptied space on the bed and resting his back against the wall. “Enjoying yourself?”  
  
“Um… Yes. This is actually… tolerable.”  
  
“Ha, you must be drunk,” John concluded with a smug smile.  
  
“I’m not drunk. Not as drunk as you.” John laughed at that, throwing back his red face before bringing his cup back to his lips and finishing off what was left in it.  
  
“It’s tradition, Sherlock.” Sherlock rested back into John’s chest, taking in a deep breath and catching just a whiff of John’s deodorant and the Earl Grey tea he always had with breakfast. How was it that John still smelled like tea when he was drinking vodka? The smell had to be in Sherlock’s head, and yet it wasn’t. A second whiff confirmed the familiar scent.  
  
“You smell good. Like tea.”  
  
“You smell like formaldehyde.”  
  
“Bad?”  
  
“Nah, just smells like you.” John brought his nose to Sherlock’s neck affectionately, taking in a few long, deep breaths before he pulled away. “Going to ask Mike to make you another drink? You can get me one too,” he hummed, handing Sherlock his cup.  
  
“You’ve had enough, John.”  
  
“Mm, nope! I’m drinking until dinner. Or tea time at the very least.” John was teasing Sherlock on account of the fact that the young genius had initially been confused and surprised when he had been confronted with the despicable reality that not everyone in England sat down for tea in the afternoons.  
  
“Oh, fuck off... I’ll be gone by then anyway.”  
  
“No, don’t leave, Sherlock. God, you’re such a annoying git! You can’t leave. This is a tradition.”  
  
“It’s an excuse for you to get pissed,” Sherlock pointed out, setting both of their glasses on the bedpost and wiggling in John’s lap to get more comfortable. John took in a sharp intake of air before he brought an arm around Sherlock’s waist.  
  
“You surprised me,” he explained, setting his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock just shrugged, accidentally sending John’s face slipping off of him. He wasn’t accustomed to being in such close proximity to other people, and he really wasn’t accustomed to being held. In fact, the only person in the world who was permitted to do so was the person who was.  
  
Lestrade caught sight of them from across the room and barreled over, clearly partaking in the day drinking tradition even more than John was. “John! Hey, mate. Didn’t think I would find you here with the little chemist in your lap.” The slightly older boy chuckled kindly, leaning against the bed and accidentally yanking one of the sheets even further out of place. “Can I get you two more to drink? Looks like Mike is neglecting his guests.” Mike was in the center of the room dancing. Well, sort of dancing. More like thrashing his head through the air and twisting his arms around his body with an absolute lack of rhythm or control. Sherlock was simultaneously disgusted and amused.  
  
“Yeah, that’d be great. Sherlock isn’t even drunk yet.” John grinned ear to ear, pleased that someone had acknowledged that he had ostensibly tamed the wildly abrasive boy who was currently residing in his lap.  
  
“Something strong then, huh, Sherl? Unless you’re not planning to get drunk like us unsophisticated rugby boys.”  
  
“I was under the impression that that was sort of the point of this.” Greg laughed at that, a friendly guffaw that made Sherlock smile. This particular bloke was utterly patient and open, forever kind and good natured. Sherlock was almost glad that Mycroft had chosen to fuck Gregory Lestrade, although the mental image still disturbed him.  
  
“Okay, shots! Everyone take a shot! Hello?! Shots!” Greg fetched a new bottle of vodka and threw his arms into the air. People came flocking over with glasses, extending their red cups to Lestrade’s loosely regulated pouring. “To Sherlock, who has agreed to get pissed on a Tuesday morning!” Everyone glanced over at Sherlock at that, smiling in a way that didn’t make the boy feel like he was being harshly judged—How often did that happen?— and then the drinks were going down. He coughed lightly at the feeling of the vodka burning down his throat, and John rubbed his side lightly.  
  
“Careful there, Sherlock…” he muttered, smiling weakly as Greg handed them each another mixed drink. “How do you feel? Don’t want you getting sick… Maybe you should take a break, yeah?”  
  
“John, I’m fine. I’m completely fine.” Sherlock leaned back and nuzzled his face gently against John’s neck in grateful affection before sitting back up. He knew that even in the midst of the college quest to get hammered, John still cared about him deeply. But he really did feel fine.  
  
And he felt even finer after finishing his drink and taking another shot with everyone else. John was warm against his back and all the faces around him only got redder and happier and friendlier until Sherlock thought it was a great wonder why he didn’t have more friends.  
  
“Lemme gettup, John… Mus’ be crushing your legs.”  
  
“Nope. You’re not allowed to leave my lap. You’re light as a bloody bird, Sherlock. You should really eat more often.” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock more tightly, even though his legs had indeed fallen asleep quite some time ago. At Sherlock’s insistence he finally spread them open so his drunk best friend was sitting in between them instead of on top of them. “How ‘bout this? Better?” Sherlock nodded and scooted his body back against John, earning a low groan from the bloke behind him. “You gotta stop doing that!”  
  
“Why? Jus’ getting comfortable.”  
  
“Gunna get me hard, you little tease.” Sherlock laughed at that, pressing back into John’s crotch until he could indeed feel John’s cock harden. John pushed him a few centimeters away with a long sigh. “Sherlock, not fair!” Sherlock was worried he had gone too far for a moment, but John’s anger quickly dissolved into content giggles and he pulled the other boy back into place.  
  
“Tired, John…” Their bodies melted together, and Sherlock had never been so comfortable, even as a few heavy yawns escaped from his mouth.  
  
“Yeah, me too… C’mon, get up for a minute.” John let himself slip to his side on Mike’s bed (the previous tenants had abandoned their posts, perhaps upon seeing how physically John and Sherlock were becoming), then patted the mussed up bedding beside him so Sherlock would lay down beside him. John was still a bit hard, but Sherlock didn’t mind, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up to a beautiful sunset. His head hurt just a little, and he was still dizzy (still drunk?), but more surprisingly, he discovered that John was still holding him.  
  
And suddenly, summer stretched out before him like an impregnable mist, representing miles and miles of emotional distance separating him from the boy currently pulling them together. A whole summer in Paris without John. A whole summer with his parents and his obnoxious brother. No late night Tesco runs, no cuddling in bed, no explaining Chemistry homework, no racing back to the dorm to catch his friend for lunch, no early morning coffees, no day drinking. No John Watson.  
  
Sherlock started to cry; heavy, plump tears that ran down the sides of his face and collided with the blue of the comforter. He pressed back against John, causing John to subconsciously hold him even tighter.  
  
Summer couldn’t end fast enough.


	4. Sunscreen/Sunglasses - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is: Sunscreen/Sunglasses. I got to write Sherlock with a lisp again and it made me a little emotional.

Sunscreen/Sunglasses

"Remember when we found out that Sherlock had learnt to write without any of us knowing?" Mr. Watson said. He was already laughing. His wife grasped his hand and started to giggle, looking over at the two happy grooms circulating the room. Well, one was happy and the other looked like he was barely tolerating the affair, but the Watsons knew Sherlock well enough to know that behind the cool surface there was far more emotion than anyone could guess.

"He was always a secretive little boy," Mrs. Holmes said fondly. "It's so like him to learn something to perfection only to make a grand statement with it to shock us all."

"He certainly did," Mr. Holmes said, nodding. "He gets that from you."

Mrs. Holmes looked at her husband fondly. Her relationship with Sherlock had always been a little rocky so every reminder she got of the bond they shared left a glowing feeling in her chest for days after.

"They've left their marks on each other in a lot of ways. I think today's exchange of rings is more permanent than that time," Mr. Watson said.

"Oh, I don't know. I think what Sherlock did was very permanent in its own way," Mrs. Watson said.

"Well, God bless the United Kingdom for finally allowing our boys to stop living in sin," Mr. Holmes said.

The parents of the happy couple laughed and toasted the disintegration of inequality.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Twenty-five years earlier.

"Wear thethe, John," Sherlock said, handing John his mother's oversized sunglasses.

"Why?" John asked, turning the sunglasses over in his pudgy hands. He had long since learnt to question what Sherlock wanted him to do.

"Daddy thayth you have to protect your eyeth. That'th why he gave mummy thethe. We're outthide and the thun ith out. Put. Them. On," Sherlock said. 

 

  
_I'm eight and he's just five. I don't have to do anything he says because I'm older,_ John thought, still turning the sunglasses over.

"John," Sherlock whined, elongating the vowel.

John put them on.

They promptly fell off again when Sherlock started to yank his shirt over his head.

"Ow!" John called.

"Shh. Daddy thayth you have to put thunthcreen on to protect your thkin. You only have one thkin, John," Sherlock said.

Sherlock's second hand knowledge from his dad convinced John quickly. Dads always knew everything. "Okay," he said, pulling his shirt off and leaving it in a pile on the grass.

"Thunglatheth," Sherlock reminded.

John put them on, reminding himself of the talk his mother had given him recently about trying to keep his temper, especially around Sherlock. Sherlock was so young that he didn't always know what he was doing, she had said. After this day, none of them really believed it anymore.

There was the splutter of a bottle being forced to part with its contents and then a cold, wet feeling on John's back. He squirmed a little but stopped when Sherlock made an impatient noise. John hated putting on sunscreen. It always took so long when he wanted to go and play and it was so sticky. He sat as patiently as he could as Sherlock carefully applied the cream, squirming again after a minute or two had passed.

"Done. Now you can lay down on your tummy in the grath and thunbathe like mummy doeth," Sherlock said, pushing on John's back to make him do it.

"I don't want to play your mummy. Your mummy's a _girl_ ," John said.

"Pleathe, John! I'll be daddy," Sherlock said. He got up and ran to the nearest tree and broke off a couple inches of a branch. He stuck it in his mouth and pretended to smoke it. "The weather ith really nithe today, John. You'll get a nithe tan," he said, lowering his voice and putting his hand in the pocket of his shorts just like Mr. Holmes always did when he stood around.

John huffed but laid down on his stomach in the grass. It was prickly and he didn't at all like this game they were playing. It improved when Sherlock came over and laid on his back next to him and they talked about guns for a while before they both fell asleep.

 

"Oh, John, you'll get sunburnt!" Mrs. Holmes said an hour later when she went out to check on the boys. They were still fast asleep on the grass.

"I'm thirthty, mummy," Sherlock said, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Mrs. Holmes covered John's back with his shirt and tutted at her son.

"I put thunthcreen on him!" Sherlock said defensively. He was starting to feel cross.

"Did you? That was clever of you, but it's still not good to lay out in the sun without a shirt on," Mrs. Holmes said. "John, dear, your mother just called to say dinner is ready at your house. I'll take you in the car."

"No, I don't want him to go," Sherlock said. Mrs. Holmes had expected it. There were a few things they could count on with the boys. One was they would always get in trouble, and another was that the separation anxiety they experienced at the end of each day when of them had to go home was only eclipsed by the joy they felt when they were reunited the following day.

"I know but Mrs. Watson said you can have breakfast with them tomorrow, isn't that nice? I'll take you on my way to work," Mrs. Holmes said.

In retrospect, Mrs. Holmes knew she should have been made suspicious by the relative ease with which Sherlock said goodbye to John that afternoon. Things with Sherlock were always clearer in retrospect.

 

"Mummy, my back hurts," John said later. He'd had his dinner (mashed potatoes and pork chops. He hadn't even tried the peas), and watched some telly.

"Does it? Did you have a fall when you were playing today?" Mrs. Watson asked.

"No. It hurts a lot, mummy," John said. The pressure of his shirt made it worse so he took it off.

Mrs. Watson's eyes widened and she gaped in shock at what she saw. On John's otherwise pale skin, there were several red marks. By his shoulder blades there were the unmistakable letters J and W with the outline of a heart below it. Underneath the heart there were the initials SH.

"Stay here," Mrs. Watson said. She quickly got the Polaroid camera and snapped a few photos. This was definitely a motif that was going to be shared between the families. _How did he think to do this,_ she thought.

She voiced the thought to Mrs. Holmes on the phone a little later. "I didn't even know he could write!" Mrs. Holmes said.

"What do you suppose it... means? Do you think Sherlock is..." Mrs. Watson said, leaving the last word unspoken. She'd read a lot about homosexuals in the newspapers lately. She didn't quite know how she felt about it.

Mrs. Holmes laughed into the phone. "Well, he's much like his dad in that way. Grand gestures. I don't think I've ever seen a grander one. I think it's time I start pulling some strings in the government. If my son wants to marry another man when he's grown, I don't want any of those law thingies stopping him. Do you think it's too early to start him on cursive writing?"


	5. Sunscreen/Sunglasses - golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> golfechoromeo will be writing one complete story using these prompts. This is the second part.

"John," Sherlock voiced, starting to pull back from the hug.  He did not want to lose the immediate physical comfort of having John in his arms for the first time since they had said goodbye (and that time and been the first), but not to be able to look at John's face seemed impossible.  "How is this possible?"  
  
John grinned up at the man in front of him and took stock of what had changed in their year and a half apart.  Somehow, though it seemed impossible, Sherlock had become even more attractive.  His face was leaner, making his high cheekbones more prominent and his dark curls were just slightly longer and framed his face very well.  _Or maybe you just missed seeing him so now you think he looks better than he did,_ John thought to himself.   
  
"I managed to surprise you," John said with a grin.  "The great Sherlock Holmes, taken by surprise, caught off guard, and not knowing something everyone else did."  
  
Sherlock looked beyond John at everyone for the party and suddenly, what had been sitting in the back of his mind and wanting to be heard finally was.  Everyone at the party was there for _John_.  That was why he knew almost everyone there.  No... he knew _everyone_ there because he knew everyone John knew.  "Mrs. Hudson..." Sherlock said in shock, his voice trailing off.  
  
"Yeah, she helped," John said, infinitely pleased with himself.  _You'll probably surprise him with the other thing you have to tell him, too.  Let's hope that goes over as well as this did.  But how could it?_  
  
"That explains why there is champagne and drinking during the day..." Sherlock said, his eyes still locked on John's as he processed the impossibility that John Watson was back in England.   
  
After everything the two of them had been through, all of the cases and excitement, Sherlock's world which for the first time had seemed stable and something he was content with, crumbled with John telling him that he would need to leave.  Mycroft had approached him about returning to Afghanistan because of the shorting of doctors in the field.  It would be for three years in total that John would be away, but it was needed.  At least that's how he had tried to explain it to Sherlock, who sulked for about a week and did not speak to his brother for about six months.  


"Are you home for good?" Sherlock asked in a hopeful tone, though he already knew the answer to that because despite his constant nagging, Mycroft had explicitly said that he would not pull any strings to bring him home permanently any earlier than planned.  


John shook his head sadly.  "No, but I've got two weeks.  That's better than nothing.  I think we can get ourselves into trouble in that time.  What do you reckon?  Unless you've found a new partner..." 

That had been one of John's primary fears about leaving Sherlock, that the brilliant consulting detective would fill his spot in with someone else for cases.  Or he would find a new roommate.  Or find himself a girlfriend.  Or boyfriend.  Or anyone.   


With a shrug, Sherlock replied, "I tried to do it on my own to start, but it as far too lonely.  Couldn't get anything accomplished.  I asked Molly to assist me and she tries, but she is not the most luminous of people.  Then again, neither of you but like I told you, as a conductor of light, you are unmatched."  


John beamed up at the eyes he had missed for those long 18 months.  He had not done Sherlock's eyes justice in his memory.  "So, still unattached then?" he asked, testing the waters a little bit more.  


Sherlock's gaze switched to a more piercing one as he heard John's words and placed them to a conversation they had shared over a dinner table at Angelo's.  He had assumed John was coming onto him then, but he had, apparently, been incorrect.  _So why is he asking that again?_    


"Yes, still unattached," Sherlock replied, trying to keep his hopes at bay. 

"Right," John said, trying to maintain a stoic face, but his lips betraying him as they twitched upwards at the corner and his tongue subconsciously moved just slightly over his lips.  He seemed to catch himself staring at Sherlock and brought himself back into the moment to say something worthwhile.  "Thank you for the Christmas present, by the way.  It was very practical."  


"Yes, well,"  Sherlock cleared his throat and looked almost uncomfortable.  "I had to forgo the annual festive jumper since it would be less than needed in Afghanistan but sunglasses and sunscreen would be far more valuable.  They were acceptable?"  


John grinned and pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket.  They were top of the line, strongly recommended for people (primarily soldiers) in desert climates, and cost a small fortune.  Everyone at the camp with John had been exceedingly jealous of the sunglasses which offered John's eyes better protection than their own did against both the glare of the sun as well as the sand that got whipped up and into their faces.   


"I love them," John said, putting them on to model for Sherlock.  "You'll understand that I no longer have the sunscreen.  I used it all up."  John lifted the sunglasses and rested them on top of his head.   


"I should hope so," Sherlock replied.

A natural lull entered into their conversation, the two of them looking at each other with almost dumbfounded grins on their faces, oblivious to the fact that everyone else at John's party was watching them keenly.  


"Who's going to crack first?" Greg asked after taking a long sip of his beer.

"John," Mrs. Hudson said, hoping that her letter to him with her encouragement would help guide him in the right direction.   


"It will be Sherlock," Mycroft said with a sense of authority.  "He may be stubborn, but he allows himself to be led by his emotions.  John returning for these two weeks will force his hand."  


"You know, for someone so observant, Sherlock sure is dense and oblivious about John's feelings," Greg said as he tried to keep his eyes form rolling. 

"Which is why John will be the one to express his feelings first," Mrs. Hudson said in almost a triumphant tone.  


The tone piqued Greg's curiosity and interest as he asked, "Interested in a wager?"

"Yes," Mrs. Hudson replied, a sure smile spreading across her face.  
  
All of this was unnoticed by either of the people being discussed, however.  Sherlock and John were far more interested in each other than anyone else. 


	6. Sunscreen/Sunglasses -Anne

John watched Sherlock from his covered chair by the pool. The detective was being a right git and a moron at the same time, a very sexy moron what with the way he was stretching out his long limbs and wiggling his arse in the sun. Just asking for attention. They were undercover at the Hotel Cipriani in Venezia, spending a few nights until Sherlock completed his preliminary investigation of some suspicious murders that had occurred in Clerkenwell that he believed to be related to the Italian Mafia. Of course, Sherlock wasn’t opposed to going into Sicily at the end of the week to actually confront the head of the operation, but the man whom he believed to be the murderer had taken a detour and Sherlock had been more than happy to follow him. Mostly because John had never stayed at a Luxury Hotel before. 

 

Sherlock could never tell what John thought about money. He was downright dismissive of it at times, and typically on the edge between offended and amused when Mycroft attempted to intimidate him with it. And yet, he was always surprisingly grateful when Sherlock let him take the checks they received from their work together. It was all very interesting indeed. However, regardless of John’s complex opinions on wealth, Sherlock figured that the other man wouldn’t mind laying by the pool at one of the nicest hotels in Italy while Sherlock chased after a high ranking member of the mafia. And he was sure John had enjoyed the evening they had shared the night prior, when Sherlock had taken John out to an opulent 5-course meal, augmented by a loaf of the most delicious homemade bread Sherlock had ever tasted, and a few bottles of the nicest wines on the menu. They had stumbled back to their hotel and fallen asleep together. Sherlock had never been happier. 

 

In fact, memories of the night before continued to play through his mind as he lounged in the sun, finally attracting the attention of the particular man he was almost certain was guilty of the most recent nasty triple murder. Dominic Patrilli. The man had fled London on a late night flight immediately after the murder had occurred, and Sherlock had found a rather damning blood stain at the bar of the hotel his suspect had been staying at in London. Messy. But not recklessly so. In fact, if Sherlock couldn’t find other ties to Dominic Patrilli, then the criminal would go free regardless of that singular clue. Hell, the victim’s blood could have technically been left there by anyone. 

 

Technically. Sherlock was close to positive he knew the truth. 

 

Luckily, it wasn’t difficult to deduce that Mr. Patrilli preferred men, which gave Sherlock the upper hand. His suspect was constantly accompanied by five men in their early twenties, all tanned and muscular, all examples of the perfect human body. Then there had been the masseuse, dark and swarthy. Then there had been the two suspiciously attractive cops who had entered Mr. Patrilli’s suite around midnight. (Interesting that a criminal was aroused by roleplaying his own arrest, Sherlock had to admit.) This was all rather fortunate because it meant that Sherlock didn’t have to necessarily start the line of communication. All he had to do was enjoy the feeling of sun on his skin and curve his back every once and a while so the disgustingly entitled mafia member could get a nice view of his arse. 

 

“Visiting long?” 

 

“Hm?"

 

“My name is Dominic Patrilli. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Sherlock turned to face the man before him with a saucy grin. Definitely coming onto him. He was smug with the confirmation that his plan had worked, and with the realization that he was ostensibly attractive enough to garner attention from a man who typically preferred blokes ten years younger than him.

 

“Il piacere è mio.” 

 

“Oh, parli italiano?” 

 

“Un po’”

 

"Vuoi venire a cena con me stasera? Ho intenzione di avere nella mia stanza.”

 

“Um…” Hm, what were the chances of Sherlock getting into trouble while having dinner in an empty hotel room with a murderer he was trying to bring to justice? Maybe he could invite John along. John would have a gun with him. “Sì”

 

“Excellent. I’m in Suite 225. I’ll be expecting a call.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave Mr. Patrilli his sexiest smile. And suddenly the man, who was surprisingly good looking, was leaning forward and then their lips were meeting. And their tongues. Sherlock tried to push himself up to seated, but Patrilli pushed him back down. Sherlock moaned, shockingly taken by how forward his new friend was being, and then he heard something that cracked his perfectly executed act into a million tiny pieces. 

 

  
_“Sherlock Holmes._ Get over here!  _Now_ , you bloody arse!” Everyone sitting around the pool turned to stare in the direction of the voice, including Sherlock, although he didn’t really need to look to know what was happening. John Watson was standing up, his face was contorted with anger, and his fists were clenched in a way that was distinctly dangerous. And then John was rushing towards them. 

 

“Is this your…?” 

 

“Mother? Apparently,” Sherlock replied in annoyance, rolling his eyes and letting out a deep sigh. “I’ll call up before I come over.” Dominic Patrilli nodded, but Sherlock could see him deciding that there was no way a shag with Sherlock was worth dealing with the monster who looked like he was preparing to attack. 

 

John yanked the detective up and pulled him all the way to the other side of the pool without another word, clearly fuming and not even attempting to pretend otherwise. 

 

“John, what is it? What’s wrong?” John pressed Sherlock down on a chair and stared at him for a spilt second, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation as to what had made him snap, and then the doctor reached for a bottle of sunscreen and twisted the cap off.

 

“You didn’t put on sunscreen. You’ll burn with skin like yours… Too pale. Hell, you’ll probably give yourself skin cancer.” Sherlock paused as he tried to process what John was telling him, and then he let a small smile tug up the corners of his mouth.

 

“Ah. I see.”

 

“Someone has to take care of you. And I doubt Dominic Patrilli cares enough about you to rub sunscreen all over your bloody back.” 

 

“I don’t think he would have a problem with that, actually.” John’s lips tightened, but he said nothing, instead beginning to rub the oily white lotion all over Sherlock’s exposed skin. 

 

“And wear these. You’re going to hurt your eyes.” Sunglasses were angrily thrown into Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock put them on without complaint. Dismantling the mafia could wait; only an idiot ignored the advice of his doctor. 


	7. One Tent - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is: One Tent.

1 tent

“If you hadn't set your tent on fire then we wouldn't be in here, so stop whining and _go to sleep_ ,” John said, kicking Sherlock under the sleeping bag they had to share now that he'd showed himself to be _an insane pyromaniac_. John had cursed under his breath the entire time he had rearranged his tent to be able to fit a six foot _arse_ into his tent. His grumbles had taken on a more vitriolic tone when he had unzipped his sleeping bag and realised he would be spending the night not snugly inside the comfort of it, but fighting for the custody of half of it with someone who was decidedly spoiled and always got what he wanted. At least he always got what he wanted from John.

“This isn't comfortable,” Sherlock said. He classified the silence he got in return from John as angry. 

“But it's fine,” he added, huffing at the end because he couldn't quite bring himself to admit that it wasn't all that bad.

“And you make it sound like I set my tent on fire on purpose. I didn't do it on purpose. How was I supposed to know that it was so flammable?” Sherlock said.

“It's a _tent_ ,” John said.  
  
“They should be fire-proofed. _Stupid_ people go camping and play with fire. They could burn down a forest,” Sherlock said haughtily.

“What? As opposed to a self-proclaimed genius who just burns down his tent?” John said. He was somewhere between anger and amusement. When he'd first got to know Sherlock, the feeling had confused him. He was used to it now.   
  
Sherlock smirked in the dark. He knew John's mannerisms and tones like the back of his hand. John wouldn't stay angry for long.

“I'm hardly self-proclaimed. I've been lauded in the press as the brightest brain of my generation, John, and you know you can always believe what newspapers say,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Oh yeah. They call me a 'confirmed bachelor'. Everything they say is true,” John said.

Sherlock frowned. He didn't understand that tone. What type of tone was that? He was supposed to know John like the back of his hand and now John had said something, something important, and Sherlock didn't know what it meant. Of course he understood the innuendo. Two men living together of a certain age without much female company still raised people's eyebrows. John had told The Woman he wasn't gay. Sherlock had heard it with his own ears and accordingly revised his opinion of John from someone who was attracted to men to someone who was solely interested in women.   
  
Sherlock fell quiet in his confusion and John squeezed his eyes shut, glad of the privacy darkness brought. Something about what he had said pained him and he'd be a fool if he didn't admit that he knew exactly what it was.

For the insane pyromaniac arse that currently had a good eighty percent of the sleeping bag draped over his six foot body, John would be a 'confirmed bachelor' if he was asked to. But Sherlock never asked and when John had asked he had been so clearly turned down. _I consider myself married to my work_. It had been a silly crush then so the sting had been minimal, just another person turning him down so going moving in had seemed like a good idea. He had believed in his ability to be turned down and move on, but it had failed him. He had instead of moving on, moved in and had started to believe in Sherlock more than anything else in the world. It had only taken few months before he was pathetically in love. And Sherlock was still dragging him along on cases. Working.  
  
“You are a bachelor,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yeah,” John said.

“And you've just confirmed it. Doesn't have to mean anything else,” Sherlock said.

John squeezed his eyes shut again. He'd given himself away, hadn't he? Sherlock bloody Holmes knew everything. Noticed everything. Saw everything. John had fucked his façade up and now Sherlock knew and had to turn him down again.

“I suppose it doesn't,” John said. He couldn't bring himself to deny his feelings. It felt too much like lying and he didn't particularly like lying to Sherlock. It always gave him a funny feeling that he was hiding from someone he didn't need to hide himself from.   
  
Again, Sherlock was confused. John sounded... regretful.   
  
“I suppose so, too,” he said, wishing he could turn on the flashlight and examine John's face. John's face was always so expressive.   
  
“You suppose so?” John replied. Something fluttered in the pit of his stomach and he had to remind himself that he was closer to forty than thirty and he shouldn't get butterflies anymore.  
  
“Well, if you were a 'confirmed bachelor', if that was your area, that would be fine. It's all fine,” Sherlock said. He felt rather brave harking back to that conversation at Angelo's.   
  
_If that was your area._ What the hell did Sherlock mean by that? Was he saying that... _Did Sherlock just tell me he's gay?_ John thought. He turned his head in the darkness in the direction of Sherlock. “It's fine?” he asked.  
  
“All fine,” Sherlock said.  
  
John did not understand. Was Sherlock telling him he knew that John was in love with him and it was fine? Was he telling him that he also had feelings for John and if John wanted to make a move, it was fine? John ran through a series of things he could say in his head but nothing seemed right so he laid there, scared to death of another rejection that would do more than just sting a little. He had never loved someone like he loved the insane pyromaniac that made him think in stupid metaphors like, _he set fire to the tent like he set fire to my heart._

Even if Sherlock knew of John's feelings, he must _never, never, never_ know about how those feelings expressed themselves in the privacy of his own head.  
  
“All right, it's all fine,” John said.  
  
Sherlock did not understand. Was John telling him that he knew that Sherlock had feelings for him and it was fine? Was he confessing his own feelings in some way and inviting an element of romance in to their relationship? Sherlock did not have an action plan for this type of situation. It required a level of bravery that he did not possess, but John was brave. John was the bravest man he knew, he'd take care of it. So Sherlock waited.

The silence was overwhelming and dragged on for ages and to Sherlock's horror, John's soft snoring was soon heard in the tent. 

He fumed. Then he doubted. Then he fumed again.   
  
Sherlock roughly yanked the sleeping bag off John's body. John made a disgruntled noise but did not wake up.   
  
“John. John. _John!_ ” Sherlock said.  
  
“Piss off, I'm sleeping,” John mumbled, turning on his side, away from Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock pulled him on to his back again.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said in the tone that said that Sherlock was about to cross a line.  
  
“No _Sherlock_. Are we going to dinner tomorrow?” Sherlock asked, overcome by frustration. Surely that's what they had decided without actually voicing it?  
  
“Sure. If you're hungry, you should just eat now though. Don't have to wait until dinner tomorrow,” John said.  
  
“Now?” Sherlock said. This was moving faster than he thought. “Okay. We could go back to London. There'll be restaurants open still. I use the word 'restaurant', in a lose way. We can go to a better one tomorrow evening.”  
  
“What? We're in a tent in the middle of nowhere. We're not going back to London in the middle of the night now _go to sleep_ ,” John said.  
  
“Is that a no?” Sherlock said.   
  
“A no to what?” John asked.  
  
It was purely frustration that made Sherlock answer. “To _dating_. Are we not going to _date_? I thought you said you wanted to go to dinner,” he said.  
  
The cogs in John's brain all stopped working at once.   
  
“Fine. We won't. Forget I said anything,” Sherlock said, incorrectly deducing the silence. He was mortified. He had never been more humiliated, not even by Sebastian at university. He turned on his side away from John and it was John's turn to push him on his back again.  
  
Words were still failing John. Everything he wanted to say was translated into physical urges. Sherlock tried to turn away again but John kept a steady, strong hand on his shoulder. He wasn't going to permit Sherlock from moving away.   
  
“You want to date me?” he asked. He had to make absolutely sure that he had interpreted Sherlock correctly or he could never move forward. 

Sherlock huffed and John's hand on his shoulder tightened. “Yes,” Sherlock said, surprised at how John had demanded the answer out of him with just his grip and he had complied.  
  
John's chest contracted, squeezing the air out of his lungs. He took a moment to appreciate that _this moment_ was happening. And then he let go of Sherlock's shoulder.   
  
Sherlock almost cried out from the loss of John's hand but it turned into a sharp inhale when he felt John straddle him. That was much better than a hand even though the weight of John pushed him into the uneven, hard ground that they had pitched the tent on.  
  
John leaned over and took another moment to appreciate where he was. He could feel Sherlock's breath, irregular and heavy, on his lips and he was about to stop it completely with a kiss.   
  
Finally.  



	8. One Tent - golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> golfechoromeo is writing a cohesive story using these prompts. This is the third part!

Once John had been successfully welcomed home by everyone who wasn't Sherlock (who, incidentally, refused to leave John's side the entire time, afraid that if he did, John would somehow disappear back to Afghanistan), the two of them found themselves feeling delightfully warm from champagne as opposed to the sun.  Sherlock and John would catch each other's eye, smile widely, and then turn away again, only to have the process repeat itself barely a minute later.   


"It's good to have him home, eh?" Greg said to Sherlock as he opened another beer for himself, his cheeks rosy.  "You probably want to leave and just bring him back to Baker Street, though.  Probably have a lot of catching up to do with him. Probably a lot you want to talk to him about," he added, giving a very pointed look.  


"Gregory Lestrade, you mind your tongue!" Mrs. Hudson said sharply from a little distance away.  She knew that Greg was trying to sway the wager in his favour by trying to persuade Sherlock to be the one to tell John first.  


"Alright, alright," Greg said, thinking about how he could get Sherlock alone to try and convince him. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he looked between his landlady and Lestrade.  "I don't understand," he said irritably, the phrase tasting like poison on his tongue.   


"It's alright," Greg said, playing it off and trying to be nonchalant about it.  "Your brain is preoccupied at the moment.  I don't think it can focus on anything but John."

The name filled Sherlock's head and he turned again to look at the man beside him, dressed in army fatigues which did not suit him well at all, in Sherlock's eyes.  He had to admit, there was something attractive about the look, even though it differed drastically from John's usual choice of nice and casual clothing. 

John instinctively turned to meet Sherlock's gaze and smiled back at him.  "When can I go home?" he asked, his smile boyish and excited and making Sherlock's heart hammer in his chest. 

"Whenever you want," Sherlock replied almost breathlessly, wanting to see John back in their flat.  That was where he belonged.  Not in a desert, not operating on wounded soldiers, but back at Baker Street, lounging in his red armchair and reading the newspaper.   


"Now?"

"Now."

They left without really saying goodbye to anyone, though no one there certainly expected them to stay much longer than they already had.  Comments didn't need to be exchanged between the guests and instead, they all looked on fondly at the brilliantly ignorant detective and the sharp witted but equally oblivious army doctor.  


"So," Sherlock said as they began to walk.  "Tell me everything."

John launched himself into stories about what had been happening to him in the past year and a half, many of which he had already told Sherlock in his letters.  Once John began to speak, he could not stop.  It was as if he had not spoken a single word in the past 18 months and suddenly, the dam had burst.  He found himself regaling Sherlock with stories about patrols, his fellow soldiers and the activities they got themselves involved in, both army related and not. 

John was in the middle of one story about how they had all taken a short leave to explore the city of Kabul when Sherlock's expression darkened and he cut John short with a few words.

"So you seem to be having fun then, over there," he said, his tone icy. He was feeling jealous of every person who got to see John when he couldn't, who was spending time with him in Afghanistan, who got to feel the warmth that radiating off of him that Sherlock so desperately craved.   


John paused and looked at him in confusion.  "What does that mean?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked disdainfully at John, the jealousy inside of him intensifying with each passing moment.  "It means that you seem to enjoy your time there.  I'm sure you barely think about your life here.  About any of it.  It's no wonder why you haven't been home to visit earlier.  You didn't want to leave your friends there."  


John looked in disbelief at what was being said to him.  "Sherlock, wy are you saying this?  You can't honestly believe that. "

"I don't know what to believe," Sherlock said in a curt voice.  "I'm sure the flat will pale in comparison to the new home you probably miss so much."  


John's eyes narrowed.  "Oh yeah," he said sarcastically, hating that this conversation had taken this sudden turn.  "My bed will definitely _pale in comparison_ to the fucking tent I normally sleep in."  


"Then perhaps you should set up a tent in the living room.  I regret that I cannot help the flat feel more like home and be as friendly as the new people you have in your life.  But it's only for two weeks until you can return to them, unless you'd like to return earlier, in which case, I would not blame you."  Sherlock was breathing heavily by the end of this, his head and emotions taking control of his words.   


John looked at him in disbelief.  "I don't know why I expected a warmer welcome," he said as he felt like the rug had been pulled form underneath him and he had entered into a nightmare world.  "I should have known you wouldn't want me back."  


"I wanted you back assuming you wanted to _be_ back.  We were both wrong."

John wanted to argue, wanted to explain himself, but why should he defend himself against something so ridiculous?  Sherlock was completely wrong about everything, but was so stubborn that John didn't want to push the issue, knowing his temper would get the better of him and he would say things he would regret and not be able to take back.  He bit his tongue to keep himself in check.

Sherlock interpreted John's silence as agreement to the point that John did not want to return home and his jealousy turned to despair.  They continued to walk in silence back to the flat.  As the entered, John turned to Sherlock and said, "I'm just going to go up to bed. Long day."  


Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement but did not speak to John, turning and walking to his arm chair and sitting down to think.  John waited for some sort of reply, but when it became clear that there would be none, he took himself upstairs and lied down on his bed, eventually falling into a fitful sleep full of nightmares, his body exhausted from the excitement and the adrenaline that had been coursing through him all day.  


But Sherlock did not sleep.  He was too busy replaying the conversation with John is his head, juxtaposing it with the afternoon that had been so perfect.  What had gone wrong?

  
_You went wrong_ , a voice said in his head.  _John was telling you about his life like you asked him to and the second you heard about him spending time with other people, you made him feel unwelcome.  Fix this._

Sherlock stood up and got to work.

It was close to two in the morning when John awoke from a nightmare so vicious that he was sitting up, sweating, and breathing heavily.  His eyes moving frantically around the small room, he had to remind himself where he was.  Home. Baker Street.  _Sherlock_.   The name made his stomach drop as he remembered the awful conversation they had shared that had come out of nowhere.  Needing to try and settle his mind, John pulled himself out of bed and began to walk down the stairs.   


  
_I'll just get myself a glass of water and sit in my chair for a while_ , he thought.  But the option to sit in his chair was not available.  John stopped, frozen in his tracks as he saw what looked like a poorly constructed tent created between the two armchairs.  The two seats had been pushed closer together and one of Sherlock's bed sheets was draped across the top of the two, creating a canopy above the floor.  Beneath it, John spotted Sherlock's legs.   


Slowly, in case Sherlock was sleeping, John moved forward silently.  He ducked down to look beneath the sheet and felt his heart swell in his chest.  Sherlock was, indeed, asleep beneath the bed sheet.  "Git," he said fondly.  John moved beneath the makeshift tent as well and lied his body down beside Sherlock's and closed his eyes.   


Perhaps it was the comforting feeling of being surrounded by a tent, or the fact that Sherlock's body was so close to John's, but the remainder of the night passed by without nightmare or incident, John's body fully relaxing as he felt himself welcomed back to his home at Baker Street.


	9. One Tent - Anne

  
_Take care of Sherlock Holmes_ , John's superior officer had said. _How much trouble could one civilian be_? he had said. _It’s only for a couple days. Get him where he needs to go, and come right back_ , he had said. James Sholto had had no idea. 

 

John sighed as he pitched the tent they were to be sleeping in during the trip, the dry desert air whipping by his muscular frame. Sherlock watched, his face hidden except for his eyes, which peered out at John impatiently. The sun had gone down, mitigating the intense heat that had plagued them all day (and for all of John’s tour, if the soldier was being honest), but it would be an overstatement to say that the climate was comfortable and an understatement to say that Sherlock was eager to get settled for the night. 

 

  
_Not like this isn’t fun, but I’m only passing through on my way to Syria_ , Sherlock had said. Yeah, bloody right. What kind of non-military personnel stayed in Afghanistan for a few days on his way to Syria and why was it his job to ease Sherlock’s passage? The whole thing was bloody fishy. Especially because the man in question was a posh twat who wasn’t even helping John pitch their tent for the night.

 

“There’s only one tent?” Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowing in irritation. 

 

“Yes, there’s only one tent.” 

 

“But where are you supposed to sleep?” 

 

“I’ll be sleeping in the tent.”

 

“But I’m sleeping in the tent.” 

 

“Yes, now you’re getting it.” Sherlock pursed his lips in distaste, tilting up his chin like the pampered git he was, but John ignored him. He was already carrying around one tent on this obnoxious mission; there was no way he was going to carry around an extra simply because Sherlock was accustomed to “better” company. 

 

“Oh.” 

 

“Problem?” John asked curtly, wiping sweat off his brow and drying the back of his hand on his trousers.

 

“No, no problem.” 

 

“Good, now that we’ve got that settled, would you like to get into the tent, Mr. Holmes?” 

 

“It’s Sherlock. My name is Sherlock.” 

 

“Would you like to get into the tent, Sherlock?”

 

“Um… Yes. Fine.” Watching Sherlock get into the tent was like watching the end of a parade. All of the sophistication stopped and the man transformed into a chaotic mess of gangly limbs. John couldn’t help but smile, still grinning as he joined Sherlock in the tent. 

 

“What? Something wrong? You’re… smiling.” 

 

“No, nothing’s wrong,” John assured, propping up a flashlight so they could see. Then he set his gun to the far right of the tent, unbuckled his pack from his back, and unrolled his sleeping bag, busying himself with his nightly preparation of his sleeping area. John finally took off his boots and divested himself of the top half of his uniform, leaving on his undershirt, which was stained with reddish dirt. He didn’t care. He was a soldier and he had had a busy week. Sherlock could deal with a dirty shirt. But Sherlock didn’t say anything. The posh wanker was too busy undressing. 

 

John watched Sherlock remove the fabric tied around his head, push the loose pants down to his ankles, and pull his baggy shirt off over his head. His boots already rested at the foot of his sleeping bag; Sherlock must have taken them off when John wasn’t looking. And now John couldn’t stop looking. He really couldn’t. The whole process was like a disturbing striptease—disturbing because of the fact that they were huddled together in a tent mere miles away from a war zone, not because anything about Sherlock was disturbing. In fact, nothing about Sherlock was disturbing, now that John thought about it— and John found that blood was rushing to his face. 

 

The light from John’s flashlight caressed Sherlock’s newly exposed skin, and just when John thought the torture was over, the other man took off his undershirt as well, tossing it with his other things. John responded by taking off his own, and removing his own trousers so that he too was stripped down to his pants. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Ah, so he knew that John was staring at him then. Of course he knew. John had been with him long enough to know that Sherlock Holmes was a bloody genius. 

 

“Have you told anyone?” Sherlock asked in a deep voice, shocking John out of his intense concentration.

 

“Told anyone what?” 

 

“That you are attracted to men.” 

 

“I’m not attracted to men.”

 

“Mm, right.” John could see Sherlock’s eyes glistening with devilish glee and he blushed even more with embarrassment. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a soldier strip down to his pants before bed."

 

“Figured that you wouldn’t mind. Since you started it.” 

 

“I don’t mind.” 

 

“So… Tell me about yourself. Do you have… a girlfriend?”

 

“Not really my area.” John’s heart started to pick up speed in the eerie half light of the tent. 

 

“A boyfriend then…?”

 

“No. I’m flattered, but I think you should know I’m married to my work.” 

 

“I wasn’t… flirting with you. I’m… I’m not gay.” 

 

“Right. Are we going to go to sleep now?"

 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” John turned the light off and burrowed into his sleeping bag, realizing that he wanted a wank more than anything in the world at the moment. Except sex. Obviously.  _Ignore it, Watson. You’re okay. He’s not even that attractive_. John cleared his throat, squeezing his eyes shut and then stealing a peek in Sherlock’s direction. He could barely make out Sherlock’s face in the darkness, but he could see those big, pale eyes looking at him thoughtfully. “But… if I were… attracted to men, I would be… very attracted to you,” he finally said in his most casual voice. 

 

“I’m sure.” 

 

“Well, yeah… Hard not to be with your bloody hair and your bloody lips and that  _bloody_ arse of yours.” Sherlock chuckled softly and then he was scooting towards John in a way that made the soldier’s heart leap into his throat. A pale hand skimmed down the side of John's face and then Sherlock Holmes was kissing him. 

 

John melted and melted and then melted again. And then he was fumbling with the zipper of his sleeping bag. Sherlock’s was already undone, so when John had finally freed himself, their bodies crashed together violently. John ran his hands up Sherlock’s chest and down it again, pushing down the other man’s pants greedily as he sucked a hole into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock whined, twisting his head around to catch John’s lips, returning John’s urgency with every fiber of his being. They were like carnivorous animals, consuming each other’s flesh and bones and being until nothing remained, devouring all that there was until they were stripped down to their bloody cores, and John didn’t mind it one bit. Although he had to admit that this was different than what he was used to; Sherlock’s body had more straight lines than a woman’s, and he was leaner than anyone John had ever been with, his muscles long and powerful, but not bulky. John quickly conceded that that might just be Sherlock, not men in general, but whatever it was, he liked it. He liked the way Sherlock felt under his body. He liked feeling Sherlock’s cock pressing into his thigh, throbbing with blood just like his own was. 

 

And then suddenly John whipped away, his eyes full of what he had to conclude were confused tears. He crossed his arms over his chest, erection jutting straight out in front of him and body shaking with desire and frustration and more self doubt than he had felt in a long time. What was he doing? Who was this bloke anyway? He really wasn’t gay. He wasn’t. 

 

Sherlock recoiled in shock, swallowing thickly when he saw how upset John was and then gently laying a hand on his side. “Hey, it’s okay…” he muttered awkwardly, draping an arm over John’s shivering form. 

 

John flipped back towards Sherlock, instantly burying his face in the other man’s chest, causing the mysterious traveler to throw up his arms in surprise and then replace them on John’s body with uncertainty. He didn’t dare kiss John again, or even move a muscle, if he was being completely honest, but after a few silent minutes, John started kissing him. Lips traveled over his biceps and his shoulders and his neck, finally boring into his own and creating so much heat that Sherlock wished he had more clothes to take off. One of John’s hands found his arse and kneaded the flesh passionately and Sherlock’s head finally fell back, his eyes falling shut with pleasure. 

 

Sherlock slid into movement once more, albeit after a moment of hesitation. He wet his hand with spit and ran it up John’s cock, earning a sound that was best classified as a whimper. “It’s okay,” he murmured again, nearly overcome with arousal. And then, after a few choice tugs, Sherlock began rutting his body against John’s in long full undulations of his hips. Which John joined into in a timely manner. 

 

Everything was hot… John’s body felt like it was on fire, burning up as Sherlock’s fingertips set sparks ablaze as they skimmed over the slopes of his skin. “I… I have to…” John bit his lip, feeling his testicles rise with his impending release. He knew it was too soon. Sherlock would be terribly disappointed in him, but he had never been this aroused before, never this turned on. He couldn’t help it. 

 

As soon as John spoke, Sherlock was sliding down his body and taking John's cock deep into his mouth, far down into his throat. And then John came, oxygen flooding his body in short harsh bursts of breath. Sherlock pulled away when it was over and licked his lips, before kissing John once more. John would have sworn that Sherlock’s mouth tasted salty.


	10. Summer Reading - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Today's prompt is: Summer Reading.

Summer Reading

[11:04]  Can I come stay with you? JW  
  
[11:04]  Yes. SH  
  
[11:05]  Thank you. JW

[11:14] When? SH

[11:16] I'm on my way now. JW

[11:16] Oh. SH

[11:20] Can I stay a while? JW

[11:21] Yes. What's wrong? SH

[11:22] I don't want to talk about it. JW

[11:24] Ok. SH

[11:25] What's wrong? SH

[11:26] Christ. Leave it. JW

[11:30] No. Tell me. SH

[11:32] Mum cleaned my room. JW

[11:34] You are angry at her for cleaning your room? SH

[11:35] No. JW

[11:35] Then what is it? John. SH

[11:40] She cleaned my room and looked under my bed where I keep magazines. JW

[11:40] She recycled your magazines and you're angry? SH  
  
[11:42] Why do you always make me laugh? JW

[11:44] I didn't mean to. Did she? SH

[11:45] No. JW

[11:45] They were porn magazines. JW

[11:46] She was angry. SH

[11:47] Angry doesn't describe it. She showed them to my dad. JW

[11:48] They told me I'm not welcome in their house anymore. JW

[11:52] But your father obviously looks at pornographic images too. This is hardly fair. SH

[11:57] John? SH

[11:59] Mine were gay porn. JW

[12:06] You enjoy gay porn? SH

[12:07] Make one of your fucking deductions. JW

[12:07] Sorry. I'm not upset with you. JW

[12:09] It's fine. SH

[12:09] I wasn't aware you found men attractive. SH

[12:12] I don't tell people. JW

[12:13] Why? SH

[12:14] Because I didn't want to get kicked out of my house. JW

[12:17] You left gay pornographic material under your bed, unattended. That doesn't sound like someone who wanted to live in the closet, as it's called. SH

[12:18] Piss off. JW

[12:20] I am sorry they kicked you out. Mummy says you're welcome to stay here as long as you like. SH

[12:24] Thank you. JW

[12:26] She already has the spare key out for you to have. You know how she can be with hospitality. SH

[12:28] I really appreciate it. JW

[12:36] Why is taking you so long to get here? SH

[12:40] I'm walking. With two suitcases. And I'm exhausted from being shouted at by my parents all morning. JW

[12:41] We will pick you up in a car. Where are you? SH

[12:42] I need the walk. But thank you for the offer. JW   
  
[12:43] Mummy is making sandwiches for you. SH

[12:45] I'll be there in five minutes. JW

“Hi,” John said, walking into the familiar Holmes kitchen and smelling freshly brewed coffee.

“Hello,” Mrs. Holmes said, giving John a pitying look. She was ever so fond of him and to hear such a terrible thing had happened to her had made her heart heavy. She fully intended to have a word with John's parents.  
  
“Is Sherlock in his room then?” John asked. He helped himself to a sandwich.

“He's popped out. He said he needed supplies for your stay,” Mrs. Holmes said.   
  
John nodded. They'd used up all the batteries for the xbox controller last time John had been over. A Mario Kart marathon would be good.  
  
“Sit down and I'll get you a cup,” Mrs. Holmes said.   
  
John obeyed and sat down, reaching for another sandwich when the first one had been swallowed down. Mrs. Holmes took extra care with his coffee, putting in shots of syrup and sprinkling with spices. She was quite like Sherlock in that way; she liked taking the extra mile and fussing over things. But only if they interested her. John interested her. It was another thing she had in common with her youngest son.   
  
“Thank you,” John said. He warmed his hands on the cup and sighed.   
  
“Don't pay them any mind, John. They are wrong. You've done nothing wrong. You're a good boy,” Mrs. Holmes said.   
  
John cringed. So Sherlock had told her. He supposed it was only fair, considering that he was going to be staying at their house but he had been outed against his will and he was so unused to knowing that other knew he had... _gay feelings_ sometimes. He didn't know how to so he didn't answer and Mrs. Holmes fell quiet, too.   
  
John ate and drank two more cups of tea before Sherlock's telltale slamming of the front door was heard though the house.   
  
“There's my little hurricane,” Mrs. Holmes said.   
  
“John! John! My bedroom. Quickly,” Sherlock called out, already racing up the stairs.   
  
John reacted instinctually, forgetting to even say goodbye to Mrs. Holmes before he was racing after Sherlock.  
  
“What? What is it?” John said, leaning against the doorway to Sherlock's room to catch his breath.  
  
“Come in and close the door,” Sherlock said.  
  
John did as he had been told and stared at Sherlock. He was starting to get confused and a little wary by the way Sherlock was acting.   
  
Sherlock was holding a large plastic bag in his hand and dipped his hand in. When he pulled it out he was holding something that made John's throat constrict so violently that he made a choking sound.

In Sherlock's hands were three magazines, all of which had men in various provocative positions on the front. “I don't think these need any presentation. I also got you lubricant. If you're going to be wanking a lot, you'll need it so you don't chafe. I also got you some protein bars,” Sherlock said. He dropped the magazines on his bed and the items he took out of his bag followed suit.   
  
John stared. And stared. His face was flaming red and he was fidgeting with his hands.   
  
“Don't you like them? There were so many types of pornographic magazines. I hadn't imagined there being so many. I got a variety. Well,” Sherlock said. It was uncomfortable that John wasn't responding to what he was saying and giving him. Was it something that he should not have done? He had been trying to be thoughtful. John had probably had his pornographic material taken away and surely wanted it replaced.

“You've bought me porn,” John said.  
  
“This is correct,” Sherlock said.   
  
The silence was long as both young men tried to decipher the other. 

“Thank you,” John said finally.   
  
“You're welcome. Maybe we can share them,” Sherlock said.

John's eyed widened for a fraction of a second. “Share them?” he asked.

“It's not the summer reading school wants us to do, but I think it might teach us something,” Sherlock said.  
  
John burst out laughing for the second time that day and for the second time it was Sherlock's doing. It made it easier to ask the next question he had. “You like men then?” John asked.  
  
“Yes. Exclusively. You like men and women,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yeah. And good,” John said.  
  
“Good?” Sherlock asked, his whole being a double take .  
  
“Yeah, good,” John said. He was feeling a little reckless; someone had taken his control away when it came to the public knowledge of his sexuality, but he still had power when it came to confessing his feelings to Sherlock after years of suppressing them. “We can look together,” he said.  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said. It felt like his breath had been taken away.   
  
“Oh?” John asked.  
  
“I meant oh...kay,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Okay?”   
  
“Okay.”


	11. Summer Reading - golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> golfechoromeo is writing one cohesive story for this prompt challenge. This is the fourth part.

__  
Sherlock was the first to wake up, his body coming to its senses and absorbing the stimuli he was feeling against his skin as he tried to take in his surroundings without having to open his eyes.  It was important that he do this because his eyes could only help him deduce so much; he was always striving to be better.  And so he focused on what he _felt_ as opposed to what he saw.   
  
He was not in his bed.  That much was supremely obvious.  The ground was too hard so he was on the floor.  _But which floor?_   And what was that object he was pressed up against?  His first thought was that it was the chair, but the object was too soft and contoured to fit the position of his body too well for it to be the chair.  Experimentally, Sherlock pushed the back of his body against the object, surprised by how nestled his arse was and also surprised, at the soft moan that came from the object.  His eyes flew open in disbelief.   
  
_John_.  
  
He must have come downstairs in the middle of the night when Sherlock had fallen asleep and must have joined him under the tent, but had John assumed this position to start with or had their bodies down this in their sleep?  Sherlock could feel his heartbeat start to thunder away as his brain was thrown into overdrive, not knowing what to anchor itself to in order to process everything.  He and John were...cuddling.  Is that what this was?  There were no arms draped over either of them, so soft touches or caresses like he imagined there would be, but the back of Sherlock's body was pressed against the front of John's body.  _Spooning_ , he thought.  _A form of cuddling_.  But what did it mean?  
  
Experimentally, Sherlock pressed back softly into John again, subconsciously rubbing his arse with a little extra push.   
  
"Mmm," John hummed, moving his body forward to meet Sherlock's in his sleep.   
  
Thrilled by this action, Sherlock repeated his own, pushing back against John and being rewarded by John humming softly and pushing forward.  Back and forth they went, Sherlock beginning to just use his hips after a while and John mimicking the actions while he continued to sleep.   
  
Suddenly, John let out another soft sound that was not a hum of contentment, but a moan of pleasure which sent Sherlock's blood pooling southward.  He froze.  _What are you doing?_ he demanded of himself.  _John does not want you like that.  He is probably dreaming of doing this with someone else and you are getting your hopes up for nothing._  
  


Reluctantly, Sherlock slid his body forward, instantly missing the feel of John's sturdy and muscular body against his and hearing a soft sound of disappointment coming from John's sleeping figure.  _But he doesn't know that it was me,_ Sherlock thought.  _He doesn't want me there.  He wants whoever it was he was dreaming about_.  


Moving silently so as not to wake up John, Sherlock crawled out from beneath the sheet and moved into the kitchen, boiling water for tea.  At some point during the morning, Mrs. Hudson had been there and had dropped off food for them.  The note placed on top of the cinnamon buns just had a smiley face on it, which made Sherlock feel mortified.  She had seen them together and probably giggled to herself the entire way back to her flat.  Sherlock grabbed the book he had started to read and busied himself in the pages, desperate to try and rid his mind of the longing to go back and continue moving his body with John's.  As the water began to warm, Sherlock forced himself to concentrate on the words on the page in front of him, describing how best to create a suitable colony for the keeping of bees.

John's dream had taken a pleasant turn.  What had begun involving him walking through a crime scene with Sherlock had suddenly turned into the two of them on the ground, rutting their body's against one another.  Craving more, John began to moan and then, quite abruptly, the Sherlock of his dream stood up, looked down at him and said, "You don't want to do this with me.  So I'm just going to do it with someone else."  John watched in horror as Sherlock turned to a gorgeously attractive man who suddenly appeared by Sherlock's side and was helpless and Sherlock and this unknown man began to kiss and move their bodies together.  But a train was approaching.  There was the whistle.  Sherlock couldn't hear it because he was too busy undressing the other man.  John's jealousy and heartbreak was paralyzing him from alerting Sherlock to the danger.  The train's whistle was getting louder and louder.  Sherlock would be hit, but then so would the man he was groping.  As hands met belt buckles and began to pull down trousers, the train whistle was deafening.  He had to do something.  "Sh-" John tried to say, but it was too late.  The train whistle stopped abruptly and everything spiraled into darkness.   


"Sherlock," John said aloud as his body flung itself upward into a sitting position, his head grazing the top of the sheet. 

"Yes, John?" came a voice from nearby.   


John was taking deep breaths to calm himself as he took in his surroundings.  _You are home.  Sherlock made a tent.  You fell asleep next to him under it._ John looked to the side, disappointed that Sherlock's sleeping form was no longer beside him.  But the dream had seemed so real, Sherlock's body against his.  He would definitely revisit _that_ part of the dream later on his own, when he would be able to sneak a wank either in the shower or up in his bedroom.  Crawling out from under the sheet, John's eyes blinked in order to take in the room.  It was their living room and it was exactly as it had been when he had left a year and a half earlier.  Sherlock had not removed anything, nor had he added anything.  John turned towards the kitchen where Sherlock was pouring out two cups of tea.  _The train whistle_ , he thought in understanding as he moved forward to join his flatmate.  


There were cinnamon buns on the table and John's eyes saw the smiley face drawn onto the piece of paper.  _Mrs. Hudson saw us.  She's definitely going to want to have a talk with me alone later_ , he thought, knowing that their landlady was going to try and convince John to admit everything to Sherlock.  He was about to remind Sherlock how he wanted his tea to be fixed when it was placed in front of him, steaming in his RAMC mug.  If the cup had been remembered, there was no doubt that the tea inside of it would not be perfect.  John smiled his gratitude up at Sherlock who nodded and sat down to join John in their morning tea and breakfast.   


Out of old habit, John went to pick up the paper to see what was going on in the city he missed so much, but his eyes were drawn to something that _was_ new in the flat.  A large white hardcover book sat on the table.   


"The Beekeeper's Bible?" John asked, looking at Sherlock with a curious and amused smile on his face.  "Planning on turning the flat into a beehive while I'm away?"

Sherlock chuckled.  "No, not the entire flat.  Probably just Mrs. Hudson's.  Or your bedroom."

John laughed as he opened the paper with one hand and grabbed a cinnamon bun with the other.  He began to read and out of his peripheral vision saw Sherlock open up his book about beekeeping and resume where he had left off.   


"Is it any good?"

"Very informative and interesting."

"So we're going to have bees."

"Not right now.  Someday, perhaps."  


"Alright."

"Alright?"

"Alright.  Just like knowing what I'm getting myself into."

"You'll still want to live with me if there are swarms of bees all over the flat?"  


John looked up from the paper, and saw a hopefulness in Sherlock's eyes.  "Of course," he replied.  "But my hope is that the book is teaching you how to keep them contained and _not_ allow them to overtake our flat.  Otherwise, I think you might want your money back."  


Sherlock smiled and continued to read, sipping his tea and feeling good that John would want to continue living with him indefinitely.  John read his paper, eagerly looking for summer events that were happening in London that the two of them could go to.  They sat in content silence for some time, each of them reading on their own, but neither feeling _alone_ for the first time in eighteen months. 


	12. Summer Reading - Anne

 

_The Stranger, The Catcher in the Rye, The Bell Jar, War and Peace, Brave New World, A Clockwork Orange, East of Eden, Catch 22, To the Lighthouse, Great Expectations, Don Quixote, Hamlet, 1984, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Iliad, Frankenstein…_

 

The books piled up on Sherlock’s desk day in and day out as he devoted his summer to reading… Even faster if he threw one down and began pouring through another.

 

The violence of war, rise to power, fall from grace. Failure, loss of innocence, injustice. Immortality, power, individuality. Society, fate, corruption. Rebirth. Light. Darkness.

 

Free will, fear, wisdom, pride, isolation, rebellion, loneliness, ignorance, redemption, forgiveness, death, love… 

 

Sherlock needed to understand it. And he didn’t. 

 

He understood the words, which jumped off the page and directly into his head, sending chains of electrical impulses firing throughout his brain. He could connect Mersault with Holden with Alex with Yossarian with Hamlet with Achilles with Mrs. Ramsay, drawing together the creatures birthed by so many minds and deconstructed by so many more. He could follow the plots, seeing twists before they twisted, running, nay sprinting just ahead of the protagonists all the way to the end. And yet there was an unsettling gray between the white and black of each story, a chasm that Sherlock was propelled down into and then lost in. Leaving Troy for New York for Paris for London and never really coming up from where he hung underground. Sherlock had a strong grasp of language, of literary technique, of the deep philosophical implications of the works. He really did. 

 

There were so many words though. So many characters. So many lessons to be learned, and all at different times and all at the same time, and even Sherlock’s genius couldn’t begin to keep track of them all. They contorted and warped and took on the familiar faces of his demons until Sherlock wanted to lose consciousness, wanted to snap and jump onto blank pages, write his own puzzle, create his own meaning. But yet, he couldn’t keep himself from turning yet another page, chewing and swallowing another set of ideas, another person, another theme, another handful of things for Sherlock not to understand. 

 

With a sweep of his hand he sent some of the books flying, hurling _War and Peace_  up into the air and _To the Lighthouse_ against the door. Books slammed into the walls of his room and fell into indecipherable clusters on the floor, splayed open in every which way. He hated Literature. He couldn’t stand it. Because it didn’t make sense. Loose ends remained untied and flapping in foreign breezes, good men died and bad ones did too. People fell in love, and fell from trees, and fell from thrones, but more often fell into wonderlands, deep pits that opened wide and swallowed up heroes to direct them on their path to… To where? To hell? To heaven? No, that would be too simple. If it were really as easy as all that, Sherlock wouldn’t keep losing them on their way to the end. And he really had lost them and now he was climbing, pressing his head up against the earthen roof in a desperate search for a fissure. For air, for sunlight, for a glimpse of the sky.

 

And of course, it had all started with one book, one page, one word… and now he was scrambling, wriggling, reaching deep into an unfathomable abyss in a vain effort to gain purchase, tumbling through an unidentified inky darkness. Where was he? What was he? 

 

Sherlock was shutting down. His head ached and his body ached more. His bright eyes were tortured by unknown visions that danced before him like vengeful spirits. Words, words, words. So many words. All the words. Sherlock’s head fell between his hands and he gripped the hair covering his temples. Blood was rushing, everything was pounding, urging, pushing him towards the brink, towards he knew not what. 

 

“Sherlock?” A voice resonated throughout his head, bouncing off of the walls of his skull and reverberating through his very core. _John_. The world fell silent and the only sound Sherlock could hear was his own heart, thumping away in his chest like a frightened animal trying to free itself from intolerable bonds. 

 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? What are you doing?” the voice (John) asked him, causing Sherlock to cautiously unfurl his limbs. Still silence. Still his beating heart. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t speak. 

 

“Um…” Sherlock’s voice shook, and so he swallowed tentatively, trying to bring moisture to his dry mouth. “Just doing some summer reading.” John surveyed the room like it was a crime scene, rising on the balls of his feet to retrieve a book from where it was precariously balanced on the edge of Sherlock’s ceiling fan. 

 

“I see. Interesting technique.” John cleared his throat and crouched beside his best friend carefully. Mycroft had called him. Apparently Sherlock was a bit not good, and no one else had had any luck with him. “You okay?” he asked in a gentler voice, brushing a few of Sherlock’s curls out of his friend’s face. “Alright, come here.” 

 

John collected Sherlock up off of the ground, and deposited him on the bed (which actually involved picking the bloke up, arranging his arms around John’s neck, and carrying him like a child), settling him under his duvet, and holding him close. Gentle kisses fell into Sherlock’s hair and onto his forehead until the young genius could breathe more easily. Shuddery tendrils of air crept into his lungs with the warm embrace, and Sherlock’s cheeks slowly regained a healthy color. Well, as healthy a color as Sherlock’s cheeks ever had. John released a deep sigh of relief when he felt the warm body beside him stirring in quest of more attention. 

 

“Summer reading, hm?” John asked, teasing Sherlock gently. Mock teasing. He really just wanted to know what was going on. 

 

“Yes. I don’t—I can't  _understand_ ,” Sherlock spat, feeling the frustration rise inside of him again, but John brushed it away with warm fingers on his cheek. 

 

“Okay, okay.” Fingers pressed back Sherlock’s hair as well, exposing his forehead to more kisses. John finally pulled away and Sherlock whined his complaint, but he fell quiet when John started speaking again.

 

“There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,  
And there the grass grows soft and white,  
And there the sun burns crimson bright,  
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight  
To cool in the peppermint wind.  
  
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black  
And the dark street winds and bends.  
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow  
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,  
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go  
To the place where the sidewalk ends.  
  
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,  
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,  
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know  
The place where the sidewalk ends.”

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide at the recitation, as he was simultaneously impressed and awed. 

 

“John, what does it mean?” Sherlock asked.

 

“What do you think?” 

 

Sherlock actually chuckled at that, wrapping his arms around John’s waist. 

 

  
“Not my area.” And it really wasn’t. John had told him a _children’s_ poem and he was still floundering to extract the essence, to bring the poem deep into his consciousness and get some sort of solid answer to the unasked questions. “I don’t know what it means...” John shrugged in reply, pulling Sherlock even closer. "But… I’d like to go there. The place in the poem, that is,” he added after a long pause. “The place where the sidewalk ends.”

 

“Yeah… Me too, Sherlock…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem by Shel Silverstein (1974, I think).


	13. A Summer Holiday - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is: A Summer Holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever stop writing Kidlock and lithping Therlock? NOPE.

 

“No,” John said, shaking his head in misery. He'd been having such a nice time playing with his toy soldiers and now Sherlock had ruined everything.  
  
Sherlock looked equally as miserable. “I'm thorry. Mummy and daddy thay it'th important that we travel tho I thee the world,” he said. He kicked a rock in frustration. His parents were so _stupid._

“I don't go away on my summer holiday and I'm still important!” John said. Did Sherlock's parents not like him?  
  
“You're very important,” Sherlock said solemnly. John was the most important person along with Mummy, Daddy, Mycroft and Redbeard (he knew Redbeard wasn't a person, Mycroft had told him so many times, but Sherlock didn't care. Redbeard was still important.)  
  
“Please don't go,” John said. He couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock going away for the entirety of July, leaving him with only Harry to play with. He didn't like playing with Harry and he had a hard time getting a long with the other boys and girls at school because he could have such a short temper. Sherlock was the only one who didn't get angry or scared with him for having a temper tantrum.

“I mutht go,” Sherlock said.  
  
John crossed his arms over his chest and his face darkened. When he was older he'd find a way to travel somewhere else and then maybe Sherlock's parents and everyone else would think he was important.

Sherlock watched John sulk and stayed quiet. It was usually best to let John sulk a while without interruption or he could kick up into shouting and have to be put in time out by an adult, and then Sherlock would have to pretend to have a tantrum or do something bad so he was put in time out too. It was a nice day outside, however, so he'd rather not spend time sitting on the stairs inside and be told off.  
  
“Where are you going?” John asked once his shoulders had lost some of the tension and his face had lost some of his frown.

“Franthe. Mummy wantth to go to Bulgaria, too. I don't know why,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Where's Bulgaria?” John asked.  
  
“Europe, John,” Sherlock said in the tone that meant that he was pleased he could prove how clever he was by answering a question. John didn't mind that tone. He did mind the tone Sherlock got when he thought John was stupid because he didn't know something.

“Oh,” John said. It seemed likely to him that Sherlock would meet a lot of new friends on holiday. Maybe he'd forget about John entirely and stay in France because he liked it better there. He started to sulk again.

“Mummy ith putting Redbeard in a kennel,” Sherlock said. He was disgusted by the idea and didn't understand why they couldn't just bring him with them. He was important. “I got tho croth that time out didn't work. Thhe took me to thee the kennel to thhow me how nithe it ith. I didn't like it. It thmelled like too many dogth.”  
  
“Oh,” John said. He didn't like the idea of Redbeard being in a kennel either. It didn't sound nice. Once he had convinced his parents to go to a pound to get a dog and all the cages of sad animals had upset him so much that they'd taken him home without ever getting a dog. He didn't want Redbeard to be sad. They'd both be sad without Sherlock.  
  
Another silence followed. John rearranged his toy soldiers. They weren't fun anymore now that he knew he wouldn't have Sherlock's company next time he played with them.  
  
“ _You can take him,_ ” Sherlock suddenly called out. His little body filled with so much energy that he pushed himself up to his knees and it wasn't enough so he got up and started to walk in place.  
  
“I can take Redbeard?” John asked. He held a toy soldier in his hand and looked up at Sherlock in surprise.  
  
“ _You can take him._ He liketh you, John. He won't be with thrangerth. He can thtay with you and you can both have thomeone to play with,” he said. He would be alone all summer but maybe it was okay if his two best friends weren't.   
  
“I'd play with him all the time,” John said eagerly. He dropped the toy soldier to the ground and got up. “He could sleep in my bed and then maybe he wouldn't be so sad because you're in Europe.” John took Sherlock's hand and pulled him across the yard towards his house. “Let's tell mum that I can have Redbeard until you come home.” He realised Sherlock would have to come to his house straight away when they came back from Europe to collect Redbeard. The idea was getting better by the second.

“Yeth!” Sherlock said enthusiastically.   
  
There wasn't much the Watsons or the Holmes could do to stop the plan from going ahead; when Sherlock and John joined forces it was almost impossible to stand against them. And it wasn't a bad idea. The Watsons had been a little concerned about what their son would get up to without his best friend and the Holmes had feared that Sherlock would stay in a sulk all summer because he was worried about his dog.

The plan worked out especially well as Sherlock taught John about e-mail and uploading pictures from a digital camera so John could send daily updates about the well-being of Redbeard. John wrote little stories that went along with each picture and it was a hobby that caught with him.

Once Sherlock returned and John had had a summer's worth of experience with computers, Sherlock helped him set up his own blog that he kept up for a very, very long time which detailed the adventures of Redbeard and then later on the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's daring cases.


	14. A Summer Holiday - golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts. This is the fifth part.

__  
  
"So where would you like to go then?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his book.  
  
John paused and looked up from the paper and across the table, taking in Sherlock's appearance for the first time that morning.  He was still wearing his clothes from the day before, which meant he had not meant to fall asleep under the tent.  His hair was in total disarray, the curls sticking in every direction and more voluminous today than John could ever remember seeing them.  "What was that?" he asked, realising he had been staring and not having actually retained what Sherlock asked of him.  
  
"I asked where you would like to go."  
  
"Nowhere?" John asked, furrowing his brow.  Trying to ascertain what Sherlock meant had always been difficult, but John felt especially off his game because of how long they had been apart.  He needed to fall back into the practise of it.  "I don't know what you're getting at, Sherlock."  
  
"You can't want to stay in London," Sherlock said plainly, finally looking up from the Beekeeper's Bible.  "You are back from having been stuck in the desert for an ungodly amount of time.  Surely you do not want to remain here for the duration of your leave.  So where would you like to go?  Dublin to visit your sister?  Paris?  America?   Get a little cottage or lake house somewhere?  People tend to go on a summer holiday to rest and relax."  
  
"Right," John said slowly.  "But I'm home to see you.  And to see London," he added hastily, not wanting to come across too strongly.  "I just got here.  Why would I want to leave again?"  
  
"So you can see and experience as much as you can before you have to go back to Afghanistan," Sherlock said.  "I don't know how much planning I can do last minute.  Had I known you were coming home for your leave, I would have been able to plan us a trip somewhere together.  As it stands, I can probably persuade my parents to abandon their little cottage up north by the lake for us to use.  What?" Sherlock asked.  "You're smiling.  Why are you smiling?  Is that an agreeable option to you?"  


John could not stop his lips from curving upwards at the edges.  Sherlock didn't want John to go on summer holiday alone.  They would be going together.  "It might be," he replied.  "Let's not jump into anything right now.  We still have some time to decide.  I'm home for two weeks.  Let me get my fill of London before you decide to kick your parents out of their summer home for me."   


"Alright," Sherlock said, about to go back to reading his book before an idea caught him and he looked up again.  "But don't you want to relax?  Living with me is not relaxing.  You and I both know that."  


"You'd be surprised," John said with a snort.  "Parts of living with you are like a dream compared to being in Afghanistan again."

"And other parts?"

"I'm sure they're still just as nightmarish as they've always been."

The pair smiled at each other and John was the first to break the eye contact, his ears feeling warm and heated, fearing that his entire face was turning rosy in hue.  "Besides, this _is_ relaxing for me.  Being at home, reading the paper, eating some of Mrs. H's cooking.  Any cases you need help on?"  


Sherlock arched an eyebrow as he took a sip of tea.  "Going on a case would help you relax?"

John grinned.  "This is a summer holiday for me, after all.  Where I get to do things that I find relaxing.  And after the initial adrenaline surge of running through the streets of London with you and all of your mad antics and deductions, yeah I would probably find myself relaxed."  


"Then I hate to disappoint you," Sherlock said with regret, "But there aren't any new cases."

"Have you been going through your inbox?" John asked, curious if Sherlock had taken up John's job.   


"No."

"Sherlock!"

"What? If it is truly a pressing matter, the client arrives here," Sherlock said.  "This way I don't have to do any of the boring work."  


"You mean the work that I did."

"The work that you _do_ ," Sherlock clarified.  "You are merely on a holiday to Afghanistan.  That is how I choose to see it."  


John smiled despite himself.  "You're mad.  You know that right?"

Sherlock smiled back at him.  "Hence the reason why you are my only viable option for a partner.  You don't seem to mind it."  


"Neither do you."

A strange look settled over Sherlock's face and to John, it appeared as if the detective was grappling with some great internal debate.  "John," he started to say, his voice strained. 

The tone of his name gave John a hopeful feeling in the pit of his stomach for reasons that he couldn't understand.  "Yeah?" he asked, his body leaning forward of its own accord.

"I-"  


"Yoo-hoo! Boys!  Are you awake yet?"

"I guess not," Sherlock said to himself before calling back to their landlady.  "Yes, we're awake."

"Oh good!"  Mrs. Hudson said as she came in the side door into the kitchen.  "It's about time.  You boys were sleeping so... _peacefully_ when I dropped off your breakfast."  She let out a soft giggle that made not only John's ears redden, but his entire face as well.  He dared a look at Sherlock and was surprised to see that Sherlock's face was turning red in colour as well, something that was a rarity.   


"Anyway," Mrs. Hudson continued, undeterred by the fact that her comment was met with silence and blood-rushed faces.  "I just came up to see if you'd be interested in coming down for dinner tonight?  Or I could bring it up here.  We could invite everyone over!  Oh, that would be lovely!  I'll go contact everyone.  You two tidy up."  


She whirled out as quickly as she had whirled in, leaving a trail of confusion in her wake. 

"John, do you want-"

"No.  We have to plan that holiday to get out of London soon."  


"I will get right on it."

With a smug smile after eavesdropping on the other side of the door, Mrs. Hudson walked back downstairs. If Gregory Lestrade thought that a few guiding words to Sherlock would do the trick, he was mistaken.  She was no amateur.  Mildly, Mrs. Hudson mused about fabrication some sort of crime scene for them, but that went beyond her power.  She was perfectly capable, however, of being overbearing enough to make them crave time alone together.  

 


	15. A Summer Holiday - Anne

Lestrade had insisted. In fact, he had specifically pulled Sherlock aside and demanded. 

 

And so Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to take John and get away for a few weeks. Their casework had been slipping, tensions had been high, and their horrible year had reached a climax when a loud bang had spooked John and led him to fire his gun into a group of university students that had “snuck up behind him.” Not like anyone at Scotland Yard blamed him. In fact, because no one had been injured, Lestrade had settled with a warning. His boys needed a break. They had needed a break since Mary’s death, and now they were going to take it, before anyone else got hurt, and before Sherlock and/or John had a mental breakdown. 

 

Wales wasn’t exactly an exciting place for a summer holiday though. Mostly a lot of grassy hills. John had sulked the whole car ride, and continued to do so now as they looked upon a large, old-looking building that was supposedly their B&B for the trip. It was only a week off. They could handle it. Right? 

 

Sherlock actually wasn’t so sure… The quiet was getting to him already, making his skin crawl. He hated the country. Perfect place for a murder, dangerous in the respect that the houses were spread far apart so no one would hear screaming, and a body could lie in it’s own blood until someone happened to find it, which could realistically take weeks. 

 

Still, Lestrade had said that this was what John needed, and Sherlock took care of John. Sherlock loved John. He would do anything for John, including this journey into a rural area for an unproductive week that sounded more like an adult time-out than a holiday.

 

Sherlock didn’t need a time-out. He hadn’t done anything.  _John_ hadn’t even done anything. Not really… No one had been injured; sometimes officers misfired their weapons. Besides, they needed to get back to their lives, not sulk away a chunk of their summer. Sherlock hated having nothing to do. That meant he was left to his thoughts and his thoughts recently had been a bit not good. Violent, bloody, stressful… 

 

However, the detective led the way to their hotel room despite his reservations, fussing over John every step of the way. Officially, they were sharing accommodations to save money, but in reality, Sherlock wouldn’t let the soldier out of his sight. In fact, he had intentionally broken the bathroom lock in his flat, just in case he would ever need to rush in on John in an emergency. Even now, he couldn’t stop fidgeting, looking back at John’s face in fear, as if just to confirm that the other man was still there, still alive. He gripped John’s forearm after they turned down the first hallway and John responded by stepping up to walk beside his best friend, freeing himself from Sherlock’s grip only to take his hand. They would be sharing a bed again tonight. They would probably always share a bed, what with the nightmares, Sherlock’s occasional fits of anxiety, and John’s panic attacks. 

 

John Watson was grieving, nearly obliterated by the loss of his lovely wife and unborn daughter, but he wasn’t blind. Sherlock was clearly grieving too and, more importantly, Sherlock needed him. Sherlock had always needed him. But it had never been this bad. Now it seemed like Sherlock was using every minute to confirm that his best friend wasn’t going to hurt himself, or try to leave. Luckily for them both, John didn’t plan on leaving.

 

“It’s… a nice place,” the doctor said, unimpressed and uninterested in their new surroundings, but trying to ease Sherlock’s nerves. 

 

“Oh, don’t bother.” Sherlock’s gaze met John’s and their bodies were suddenly locked in place, serious deep eyes met nervous sharp ones for a long moment, and then suddenly both men began to laugh weakly. They both knew John’s act was a ruse, that they were fraying at the edges like an old blanket, and that Mary’s death was not going to be easy to recover from. But laughing no longer felt sacrilegious, not between them. After all, it was once again Sherlock and John against the world. 

 

Room 17 looked like it would be tolerably comfortable. A thin band of tasteful lilac wallpaper stretched around perpendicular to the ceiling, a few expensive antique lamps were scattered around the spacious bedroom, and Sherlock peeked into the bathroom only to find a claw foot tub as well as a luxurious shower. Interesting. However, perhaps the most relieving aspect of the room (that Mycroft had booked for them last minute) was the amount of space they had. The rooms were open and there was a rather large window taking up most of the space on the sole exterior wall. 

 

Sherlock dumped all his stuff on one of the beds with a sigh, melodramatically stretching himself out on the other one. He was making it very clear that John would be sleeping with him, albeit a bit passive aggressively. The soldier didn’t complain. He set his stuff beside Sherlock’s, changed his clothes, and embarked upon an exploratory hike around the area immediately surrounding their B&B.

 

Sherlock fiddled anxiously for several minutes, feeling as if his heart had been ripped out by John’s absence, and then enough of his fear subsided that he slept. After all, he really needed it. 

 

When John returned to Sherlock a few hours later, he was covered in sweat and dirt, his hair was sticking to his forehead, and he could actually see sweat stains forming on his shirt beneath his armpits. Nothing wrong with trekking through a field like a maniac, right? And exercise was supposed to increase serotonin levels to make him feel happier, right? Technically. In reality, John still felt like shit. He looked around for the detective, only to find that the other man was passed out on the bed. Still had a few minutes to himself then… With a weary huff, John went into the bathroom to take a long shower, only departing from the soothing hot water when he heard pounding on the door. Emergency. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. JOhn’s heart rate sped up and his breathing became labored. It seemed like as soon as he heard the sound, his entire being was thrown into a fit of panic. 

 

John threw the shower curtain open, nearly slipped rushing out into the misty bathroom, fumbled to unlock the door, and threw it open in utter panic only to find Sherlock. Tears were pouring down the other’s cheeks and John quickly enveloped the shaking body in his own, ignoring the fact that he was stark naked. Okay, it had been a long separation. Too long for Sherlock apparently. 

 

“A dream.” A nightmare, more like. Sherlock’s mind was playing tricks on him again, which made John’s temper prickle. Sherlock relied on his mind, lived in his mind… It didn’t take a genius to deduce that when that last bastion started to fail, things were very, very bad. John released Sherlock to grab a towel, pulling on sweatpants before collapsing on the bed and beckoning for Sherlock to join him. As soon as the detective’s body hit the sheets, he was asleep again, this time drifting into a more peaceful rest now that he was safely cuddled up against his doctor.

 

John roused Sherlock just before dinner, tenderly running hands up and down his back until his best friend awoke with a small whine that made John smile. Sherlock was always so surly, and this time was no exception. In fact, Sherlock was in such an irritable mood from having his sleep disturbed that John had to pick out some clothes for him to wear to dinner. Purple shirt, tight trousers, even tighter pants… All of Sherlock’s most provocative clothes. John couldn’t help but grin, especially when Sherlock saw himself in the mirror and let out a guffaw. 

 

“Was this really necessary?”

 

“Oh, yes. Completely necessary.” Sherlock teasingly wagged his arse in the mirror before shrugging noncommittally and offering his hand to John. Dinner. Why not? 

 

Strangers flirted with him all through dinner, and while it could be assumed that Sherlock began to glow with all the attention, he was really just mostly pleased to share knowing glances with John throughout each and every episode. Fools. Morons. Dolts. Arses. Although despite his rancorous protestations, Sherlock had to admit that some of the behavior displayed was more amusing than irritating. 

 

And, shockingly, John and Sherlock seemed… alright. They were fine. They were okay. To their mutual surprise, they both even found themselves smiling and laughing occasionally (although the sound was hollow and slightly sad).

 

And then halfway through dinner, in the midst of an amusing conversation about Mycroft’s consumption of a giant chocolate Santa Claus, John fell silent and Sherlock could see tears brimming in his eyes. Ah, no longer thinking about the story then. Sherlock stopped, swallowing thickly as his mouth suddenly seemed impossibly dry.

 

“Mary’s… dead,” John finally said in a clear voice, as if he was only finally telling himself the bad news. 

 

“I know. I’m sorry…” Sherlock replied instantly, apologizing for the fact that he hadn’t been able to stop the oncoming car, for the fact that Mary had fallen victim to chance, not using an apology as a method of offering his condolences. Because even after all she had been through, all _they_ had been through, regardless of all that Sherlock had promised, Mary had died anyway. Mary had died and she had taken John’s child with her.

 

“Sherlock, it wasn’t your fault.” 

 

“She was coming over to the flat to pick you up and drop off milk and bread for me. It’s my fault. I should have known.”

 

“How?”

 

“I… I don’t know. But I should have known.”

 

“Sherlock…” 

 

“I could have… I… should have been able to…” John just stared at his friend as if Sherlock had lost his bloody mind. 

 

“No, listen to me… _This_ was not your fault.” And in that moment, Sherlock knew that John was telling him the truth. 

 

Unfortunately, knowing didn’t make anything any easier.


	16. Summer Rain - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Today's prompt is: Summer Rain.

Pitter patter on windows, the roofs of cars, the asphalt on the streets, on umbrellas, on leaves, on corrugated steel, on water, on skin. It could rain in London in the summer. It could pour. It could thunder and the lightening could put the city lights to shame.

The water could smooth down Sherlock's curls. It could make him look like a half drowned puppy dog, annoyed that the work he would never admit having put into his appearance was being ruined. The rain could be so heavy that the long eyelashes on Sherlock's face could clump together, framing his eyes so it was almost impossible to look away.

The water could wash away some of the unpleasant smells hiding in the streets. Urine, trash, waste from dogs. It dulled the harshness of city life and made the scent of trees, flower and dirt overpower what usually overpowered them.   
  
He and Sherlock had run through those streets, the hems of their trousers wet, water splattered up the back of them up to the knees and their shoes soaked through. Sweat had mingled with the rain on their foreheads just like adrenaline and lust had mingled in their veins.

And then Sherlock had gone and the physical rain had turned insignificant. Nothing really mattered anymore, nothing got through the shell of grief around John.  
  
After Sherlock had jumped, it had rained. John had gone back to Bart's the day after to see the blood stains, to convince himself that it had really happened, that Sherlock's blood was no longer pumping around in his body but was now pumping along the sewers beneath the London streets. The rain or someone else had washed it away. He hadn't stayed long. The thoughts of all the what-ifs had driven him away.   
  
He had been driven so far away from Sherlock that once Sherlock did come back, he had already been driven into the arms of another.

The rain didn't sound the same in the little house he shared with Mary. The rain didn't clump her eyelashes together and frame her eyes. Her hair was always flat so all the rain did was make it darker. He and Mary never ran through the streets, never slumped together against a wall and giggled. John never felt the same pull to her as he did Sherlock. It had been part of the reason why he had chosen her. She had been safer. His heart was never at the same risk as it had been with Sherlock. The feelings had never been as intense, as deep or as consuming so he could remain with one foot steadily on the ground, ready to run.

John had realised too late that he wanted Sherlock to consume him. He was married, she was pregnant, Sherlock was gone somewhere again.  
  
All the wrong things happened to him. Sherlock was shot, Sherlock flatlined, Sherlock went missing with a fresh gunshot wound to the chest, Mary was the shooter, Sherlock's persuasion for him to stay with her, for the sake of marriage, for the sake of the baby, for the sake of happiness, for the sake of manipulating her.

John had not listened to Sherlock's manic explanation of the plan, the plan that would secure the baby to John, away from Mary. He couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't care anymore. His best friend, the love of his life, had died and then come back. He had grieved the loss so fully that he didn't know how to stop grieving.   
  
The baby had been born. It had been the spitting image of its father. Mary had cried and tried to explain that it had been a one off, wedding nerves, it hadn't meant anything. The initial shock wore off into something like relief. He had no reason to stay with Mary, no reason to stay anywhere near her at all. He stopped pretending that he loved her and that he could live with the person who had shot and killed the love of his life. He told her to take her pretend play of house to her ex. He had told Sherlock that he should never had left because now it was all gone. He moved to a tiny flat that he couldn't afford. The rain didn't sound right there either.  
  
It didn't seem to rain the following summer. The heat of the city choked him, squeezed in on him from all sides and left him panicked. All the wrong things had happened to him and now nothing was happening to him again. It choked him more than the heat. Sherlock didn't contact him. Mary texted him constantly.   
  
He enlisted again. If he was going to suffer through heat and the loneliness, he wanted it to have purpose. He retrained, he got fitted for new gear, he flew to Afghanistan to help in the very last relief efforts the United Kingdom was going to offer the country they had helped tear to shreds.

He was content, to a degree. He had hoped nothing would remind him of his former life, the life with the person who made him feel like his heart wasn't beating in his chest anymore but somewhere outside it, but the adrenaline reminded him. And it was raining tonight. It pounded against the roof of the little hospital clinic he worked at. He wondered if Sherlock's eyelashes still clumped together the same way and if he ran the streets with someone else now. He pulled a leaf of paper to himself and clicked his pen against the table and started to write.

_I miss you._   
- _John_


	17. Summer Rain - golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> golfechoromeo is writing a cohesive story using these prompts. Go back and read the other parts!

  
  
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said into the phone.  "I will let him know you send your well wishes...Yes, I know.  _Yes,_ Mother."  He ended the call and looked at John.  "There is good news and there is bad news.  
  
John had dismantled the tent while Sherlock was on the phone with his mother, trying to organise their stay at the cottage on the lake.  The thought of the two of them spending real time _alone_ together was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.  John wondered if it would be good for them or if they'd be at each other's throats, having no London activities or familiar faces to be the buffer between them.  _You aren't spending your entire leave there_ , John reminded himself.  _This is just a small holiday within a holiday.  If things go poorly, you'll be back soon enough._  
  
"Oh?" John said aloud, looking up at Sherlock while sitting in the armchair he had missed so much, a look of trepidation on his face.  "Which do I want first?"  
  
"My parents said that they would be more than happy to vacate the house for our use."  
  
"Oh good! Let's pack up now then and-"  
  
"In a few days time."  
  
"Oh."    
  
Feeling deflated, John sank back into his armchair.  _You didn't even want to go anywhere just a few minutes ago.  You and Sherlock'll still get to leave.  Stop pouting.  Make the most of it._  
  
"Well, looks like we'd better find a way to entertain ourselves!" John said, injecting as much bravado into his voice as he could.  The tone sounded forced and wrong on his tongue and he shook his head as if to try and erase the moment from history.  "What do you think?" John asked again, relieved his voice had returned to normal, at least somewhat.  "Maybe go for a walk?  Regent's Park? We could-"  
  
John's next suggestion was drowned out by a low rumble of thunder and the start of thick heavy drops of rain beginning to pelt the ground.  Each _plat, plat_ of the rain seemed to mock John's suggestions and caused his mood and expression to darken.  "Well, that's just bloody perfect," he exclaimed.  "What else can we plan that can be taken away from us?  At this point, the day is pretty much a wash.  Can't go your parents' lake house?  Can't even go for a fucking _walk_ without being drenched in rain?  What are our other options?  We might as well play sodding _Cluedo_!" John finished angrily, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his breathing.   


John knew by Sherlock's expression his temper had gone too far, taking control of his words.  The look on Sherlock's face was akin to that of a child who had been denied ice cream for so long and then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, been granted a giant sundae. 

"No," John said hastily.  "I didn't mean-"

"Yes," Sherlock said, his eyes lighting brilliantly and his face looking like it was about to split in two from the sheer force of the grin that was spreading across it from ear to ear.  "You said it.  Since we can't do anything else-"

"Sherlock, no."

"We might as well-"  


"Sherlock, _no."_

  
_"Play Cluedo!"_  

"No! Sherlock, I swore never to-"  


But Sherlock was already crossing over to the other side of the living room and pulling it out from the shelves beside the couch.  There was no stopping him now and John found himself cursing his misfortune.  A rainy day spent indoors playing a board game.  And not just any board game.  The board game that John vowed never to play with Sherlock (let alone with anyone else) ever again in his life.  


"Is there anything I can do to get you to change your mind?" John asked hopefully, watching as Sherlock began to set up the game on the floor, sitting cross-legged and shuffling the cards.   


"No," Sherlock said simply.  "So stop asking.  It's raining outside and there's nothing else for us to do, as you've so astutely pointed out.  Now, onto more pressing matters.  Are you going to be Colonel Mustard as always?"  He had already placed his Professor Plum piece in front of himself.   


With a groan, John slid to the floor and moved toward the game.  "Yes.  I'll be Colonel Mustard."

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Sherlock began to deal their cards.  


It was a mark of how violent a summer rain storm it was that the noises from upstairs were drowned out by the howling of wind, the torrential pattering of rain, and the timpani of thunderous rumbles.  Occasionally, Mrs. Hudson would hear bits of shouting and stomping from above her.   


" _Sherlock, for the last time, you cannot-"_

_"John! Do not try and solve it this early to-"_

_"Would you stop acting like this is an actual murder!"_

_"No, it could not have been my own character!"_

_"Don't you dare do this again."_

_"John, the rules are wrong! Even you're not moronic enough to miss that!"  
_

_"Sherlock, put the knife down.  Don't you dare!"_

The slamming of doors and stomping on the stairs gave the thunder a run for its money as Mrs. Hudson walked out the door of her flat and saw John moving down the steps. 

"John!" she said in surprise.  "You're going out in this weather?"

He turned and looked at her, his eyes almost as wild as his temper.  "He stabbed the board into the wall again," he said and with a smug smile over how Sherlock was about to get scolded.  Mrs. Hudson was already yelling at him as she moved up the stairs and John walked into the summer rain, the coolness helping to calm his raging temper.  _Never again_ , he swore to himself as he walked his old and familiar path through the streets.   _Never. Again._  



	18. Summer Rain - Anne

 

You awake? SH

 

I am now. JW

 

Oh, brilliant. I want you to come over. SH

 

Sherlock, it’s the middle of the night. JW

 

I can’t sleep. SH

 

Have a glass of milk. Count sheep. You’ll be okay. JW

 

It’s been a couple days. SH

 

What? JW

 

It’s been a couple days since I’ve slept. I need you. SH

 

Jesus, Sherlock… Okay, I’m on my way. JW

 

Mary won’t mind? SH

 

She minds. You woke her up too. But she won’t mind me leaving to make sure you don’t die of sleep deprivation. JW

 

Oh. Okay. Fine. And I won’t die. I don’t need sleep. SH

 

We’re not having this conversation. Even you, the great Sherlock Holmes, need to sleep. JW

 

[Delayed] I’m tired, John. SH

 

I’m sure. I’m bringing you sleeping pills. You might want to keep some around the flat. JW

 

I don’t want sleeping pills. SH

 

Sherlock… I know you don’t like the idea of them, but your current sleep patterns are unhealthy. Medication might help. JW

 

Typical doctor. SH

 

Well, I am a doctor. JW

 

I just want you. SH

 

I know. JW

 

I’ll be fine when you’re here… I’ll go right to sleep. I can tell. SH

 

Ah, I see. Does the great Sherlock Holmes need a cuddle? JW

 

Shut up. SH

 

I’m almost there. JW

 

I changed my mind. I don’t want you. SH

 

Sherlock, you woke me up in the middle of the bloody night to call me over to your flat to help you sleep, and that is what is going to happen. JW

 

It is highly inappropriate for us to share a bed. SH

 

You’re just noticing that now? JW

 

What does Mary think about this? SH

 

It’s none of her bloody business. JW

 

John locked his mobile and pocketed it without waiting to receive a reply. He really preferred that Sherlock never go longer than 24 hours without sleep, but he knew that that was sometimes too much to ask of the skittish detective. Sherlock worried him. And now that John was married, he had no way to make sure his best friend was sleeping, eating, and taking care of himself on a regular basis. To make matters worse, with each conversation they had, he was forced to accept that Sherlock unfortunately  _wasn’t_ doing any of these things. Which was why all it took were a few texts to send John Watson running towards Sherlock’s side with his good intentions in the front pockets of his trousers. The surly detective required a great deal of comforting and attention, and providing him with the aforementioned services was John’s job, as he was ostensibly the only person Sherlock would accept help from. 

 

And no, Mary did not know the extent of what comforting Sherlock entailed. However, John truly did believe that while his behavior with Sherlock verged on inappropriate, he had done nothing /wrong/, nothing that Mary would directly disapprove of. Okay, sure... He climbed into bed with Sherlock at times, but it was only because they both slept better that way. Nothing happened. 

 

John kissed a drowsy, irritated Mary good bye with anxious urgency, rushing out into the night with his coat in his hand. It was lucky that he remembered it, because he was instantly met with a downpour. The rain was so intense that it would be a misrepresentation to call the water that was pummeling the earth a simple summer shower. It was an attack on England, and John was going out into it willingly. He slipped his jacket on with a shrug, even though water had found the soft underside of it already, ready to face any manner of unpleasantness in order to see his best friend. Including getting a good soaking on the way to his car; John didn’t mind. He was in too much of a hurry to get to Sherlock. His Sherlock. 

 

John even accidentally ran a stoplight on his way, which made him curse his own single-mindedness at the same time he reveled in the feeling of recklessness. John could get reckless; the idea that Sherlock was in need made him restless. The only thing keeping him so cool and collected was the fact that his friend was in need, but not in danger. At least there was that. 

 

Although John’s clothes had begun to dry during the drive, he was promptly drenched as soon as he got out of his car at Baker Street, and his state wasn’t helped by his inability to find his key.

 

Can’t find my key. Can you let me in? JW

 

Yes, I’ll be right down. SH

 

Sherlock was in one of his moods, the bad ones. He was strung out and exhausted from lack of sleep, and he couldn’t seem to stop the jolts of panic that kept running through his entire being. Why was he panicking? What was bothering him? His heart was pounding, his skin was itchy, his eyes hurt, his head throbbed, and sleep seemed far beyond him. And yet, as soon as Sherlock saw John, he smiled, and it didn’t matter why he was so upset. (It was loneliness, mostly.)

 

The doctor looked like a wet cat, and as soon as the initial shock wore off, Sherlock was pulling him into dry arms. 

 

“You owe me, Sherlock,” John mumbled, his teeth chattering with the cold. 

 

“Yes, yes, get in here, you dolt.” 

 

As soon as they were back in the flat, Sherlock stripped John of his clothes, leaving them all in a wet pile on the kitchen floor and wrapping John in a thick blanket. John needed to be warm, John needed to be safe. Sherlock rubbed his patient’s arms with such ferocity in an effort to create friction that John began laughing so hard he couldn’t seem to stop. 

 

“Alright, Sherlock. I’m okay. I’m fine. Let’s get you to bed. And… um… clothes would be good.” Clothes were preferable. Clothes were appropriate. Although it wasn’t like Sherlock cared or anyone was watching them. No one had even seen Sherlock pull off John’s clothes in a desperate frenzy to get him dry. However, despite Sherlock’s general disregard for decency, he did toss John a pair of sweatpants before they fell into bed together. 

 

John quickly recovered from the terrors of his expedition as soon as Sherlock was safely rested on top of him. He ran a hand through soft curls and kept his other on Sherlock’s waist, holding him in place. 

 

“Better?” John asked after a moment of piling his tender attention onto his best mate. 

 

“Yes, better.” 

 

“Going to go to sleep?” 

 

“Mmhm.” 

 

“Need a good night kiss?” Teasing. John was teasing. He was… Right? No, not really. He had never wanted to kiss anyone as badly as he wanted to kiss Sherlock in that moment, to press his thin lips against Sherlock's soft, plump ones. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock and his pulse started speeding. A kiss? What was John bloody talking about? He swallowed carefully, mind whirring away again, but not in a bad way. He just had no idea how to respond to something like that. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Yes. Good night kiss.” 

 

“Oh. Um… Okay.” John leaned forward awkwardly, guiding Sherlock’s head closer to his own with the hand that had been playing with the detective’s hair, and then he gave Sherlock’s a soft kiss on the lips. 

 

Sherlock had never felt anything so heavenly. His John was so tender, so careful, so loving. His John was always there when Sherlock needed him, always loyal, always brave. Maybe because his John was a bloody good soldier, a caring doctor, and the best friend Sherlock had ever had. And John had just  _kissed_ him. John loved him. Hell, John was probably in love with him. Definitely in love with him… 

 

Shit, John was in love with him.

 

Sherlock nearly sprung out of John’s arms, his face stricken with terror, guilt, and pure pain. 

 

“You need to go.” 

 

“What? Was it that bad? Jesus, Sherlock… You told me to kiss you, remember?”

 

“John, _leave_.“ Sherlock would not be sleeping that night. Or the next. Or ever again if his current level of stress remained constant. _Fucking Christ_. What had he done? What had he let happen? “I want you to leave.” 

 

“Well,  _I_ don’t want to leave. I want you to lay down and get some sleep. I will hospitalize you and make you take sleeping pills if you don’t,” John threatened, his face turning bright red with embarrassment. Why had Sherlock freaked out like that? It hadn’t been a particularly damning kiss, had it? He hadn’t aggressively violated Sherlock’s personal space against Sherlock’s will, had he? It hadn’t felt that way. It had felt soft and sweet and… passionate. In an odd way. Not in that Sherlock had been assertive and filled John’s mouth with tongue, but in the way that their mouths fit together, as if their very bodies had been longing for each other all this time and were only now vainly attempting to fulfill that insatiable longing. Of course, John assumed this was all in his head. Sherlock didn’t _feel_ like a normal person did, and he certainly didn’t harbor the sort of feelings for John that John had for him.

 

“Oh, don’t bully me, you fucking idiot. You can’t _threaten_ me. You’re the one who… you know. ” 

 

“I’m your doctor. I’m trying to keep you healthy.” 

 

“Healthy is boring.” Sherlock ran his fingers over his lips, as if he could brush the kiss away, but his skin still tingled, and his heart was still breaking. “Don’t ever do that again.” 

 

“I won’t. After this reaction, I wouldn’t dream of it.” The detective warily replaced his body over John’s on the bed at John’s reassurance, taking a moment to listen to pregnant drops of water hurling against the roof of his flat.  _Relax, Sherlock. You need to relax_.

 

“Good,” Sherlock quickly replied, wilting internally at the look of earth shattering pain on John’s face. “Oh, it wasn’t that I found the kiss unenjoyable. In fact, I liked it. I would like you to kiss me more often. I just… don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re… married.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“You’re married, John. You’re with someone else.” 

 

“Why would that matter?” 

 

“I’m not going to have an affair with you.” 

 

“An affair?” 

 

“Yes, I’m not going to help you cheat on your wife.” 

 

“Christ… Sherlock, you don’t even like that sort of thing. You've made that very clear,” John reminded his best friend, stroking his back soothingly. 

 

“I’m in love with you. Why wouldn’t I like that sort of thing?” The room fell completely silent, and Sherlock felt John’s whole body tense up underneath him. The hand stopped running up and down his back, and for a moment, Sherlock thought that John had actually died. Or that Sherlock had been incorrect in his assumption that John was in love with him as well. He was occasionally incorrect after all.

 

“Say that again,” John demanded, his voice strained to the point of cracking. 

 

“Why wouldn’t I like that sort of thing?” 

 

“No, the other part.” 

 

“I’m in love with you.”  

 

“Sherlock, I’m in love with you too.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Absolutely. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I will do what it takes..” John’s face was pale and drawn with anguish. How had his life gotten so fucked up? It was Moriarty’s doing… Moriarty’s going away present to the both of them. "Do I have to leave?” 

 

“ _John_. No, don’t… Leave tomorrow morning.” 

 

“Okay,” John promised with a nod, already imagining a life with Sherlock at his side, picturing their family (3 kids, a dog, and a misbehaved cat), and envisioning a relaxing (but lively) retirement. He would be so content with Sherlock Holmes, so blissfully happy. They could have everything together, and John wanted everything. And then he thought about Mary, and the baby he had so far along its way. He thought about the wedding, the promises he had made, the life that he had chosen while Sherlock had been away.  _Fuck_ … John’s life had gotten utterly confusing and nothing had even changed. Sherlock had simply said a few words and sent the world crashing down. 

 

“Sherlock… What are we going to do?” John finally asked, nestling his face into Sherlock’s hair.

 

Sherlock didn’t hear him. The rain had already lulled the detective to sleep. 


	19. Ice Cream - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Today is not like any other day because today is John Watson's birthday! Luckily, today's prompt is a little extra festive: Ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what events I'm referencing to in this, you can read about them in this fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1076743

Sherlock had a mustache made up of chocolate ice cream. John had taken a break from eating his own bowl to look at him with a smirk.

  
“What?” Sherlock snapped.  
  
“What what? Nothing. Just looking at you,” John said.  
  
“You're _smiling_ ,” Sherlock said accusingly.   
  
“The crime of the century. I'm smiling on my birthday. Better call Lestrade,” John said. It was hard to keep from laughing with the way Sherlock was frowning at him with a happy face painted on with chocolate curling up from the edges of his mouth.  
  
Sherlock huffed and got back to eating his ice cream.   
  
John watched Sherlock eat, each bite making a bigger mess of his face.  
  
”Remember your birthday?” he asked when he couldn't ignore that watching Sherlock eat like he had never utilised a spoon before was turning him on.  
  
Sherlock replied by nodding.   
  
”In the alley?” John pressed.   
  
Sherlock nodded again, this time with an actual smile turning his lips up.   
  
“I think we should make blow jobs a birthday tradition,” John said.   
  
Sherlock shrugged like he didn't find the idea interesting. It riled John up, as he had hoped.  
  
John came to a stand and walked around the table. “On your knees.”   
  
Sherlock turned his face up to John. He had been waiting for the request. Careful questions was not going to do to them what John ordering him could.  
  
“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said. There was not a hint of sarcasm or a laugh in his voice. He slipped out of his chair and on to his knees in front of John and looked up for further instruction. John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and pulled his face close. Sherlock nuzzled John's stomach, moving lower until he felt the hardening cock. He kissed it through John's trousers and rubbed it with his face. He adored John's cock.

 

With a little touch to Sherlock's forehead, John made him move away. “So pliant, you brilliant detective,” he whispered as he worked his trousers open and pushed them down his legs along with his pants. “Suck,” he said. 

 

Sherlock stared up at him, defiant and annoyed with how much he wanted to obey.

 

John slid the tip of his cock against Sherlock's lips. They were pressed into a tight line and when he forced his cock through they put a soft, intense pressure around him. It made John gasp and grab a handful of Sherlock's hair to steady himself. The look in Sherlock's eyes became so smug that John pulled hard on the locks in his hand. Sherlock grunted and his eyes fell closed and it was John's turn to become smug; Sherlock's hair follicles were sensitive and when they were roughly handled he seemed to go into another state of mind where he was all John's.   
  
_All mine_ , John thought. The man with chocolate ice cream painting a smile on his face was on his knees in the kitchen with his mouth now open wide to accommodate John's cock. And he was all his.   
  
There was no talking like there had been on Sherlock's birthday. John didn't have the same need to show off. He certainly didn't get off on being clever like Sherlock did. What he did get off on was watching Sherlock's lips move on his cock and listening to the slurping sounds. Every so often, Sherlock would look up at him with a questioning look in his eye.   
  
“You're being so good, so clever with your mouth,” John said on one of those occasions.   
  
It pulled a whine of eager contentment from Sherlock's throat and he started to move his head faster.   
“Clever,” John moaned, tightening his hand in Sherlock's hair.   
  
The quicker speed of his sucks made Sherlock start to lose control of his mouth. Saliva started to escape, wetting his chin in a way that made John long to one-up it. He pulled his cock out of Sherlock's mouth and started to rub himself. He wanted to mix his come with the chocolate and saliva.

 

“John?” Sherlock asked, almost whining. Wasn't he going to be allowed to have the product of his hard work?

 

“Shut up,” John ordered.

 

Sherlock looked up at him defiantly but that look on his face was swiftly softened by another tug of his hair. The efficiency of the small action made John swear and rub himself more intensely. He was so close. Ever so close. His hips pushed forward on their own, again and again, mashing the head of his cock against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock sat still, letting his lips be pushed around in a way that he knew must make him look ridiculous. The look on John's face told him that John was too far gone to see how ridiculous he looked and instead only saw the power his cock was exerting over Sherlock's face.

 

_Mine,_ John thought. He pulled on Sherlock's hair again, positioning Sherlock's head so that he had access to the entirety of the lower part of his face. A jumble spilled from his lips as he started to come. _Fuck, shit, god, Sherlock, coming._ They were all sounds Sherlock stored away for later access.   
  
John steered his cock from one side of Sherlock's mouth to another, leaving a trail of come dripping down over Sherlock's lips and chin. It didn't do much to wash away the chocolate ice cream but the sight of it being momentarily hidden by a milky coloured substance consumed John for several long moments.   
  
Sherlock sat patiently with his eyes fixed on John's. The warm come slid down his face, making him want to open his mouth and lick it off himself, but he had to wait John's permission. Those were the rules. He didn't know how the rules had come about, but it was imperative to them both that they be followed.   
  
John dragged his left thumb over Sherlock's lower lip and then pushed it between his lips. “Suck it off,” he said and Sherlock did just so. “You can have the rest,” he said, pulling his thumb out.   
  
Sherlock wasted no time poking his tongue out of his mouth to lick up what he could, while his slender fingers collected come from his chin that he could suck off.   
  
“God, you're gorgeous. Thanks for that,” John said. “Might want to go wash up before Mrs. Hudson comes up with the cake.”  
  
“Cake?” Sherlock asked, his fingers half way to his lips.   
  
“Requested it for my birthday,” John said. He stroked Sherlock's head.   
  
“Oh. Thank you,” Sherlock said. John didn't particularly like cake. He was a biscuit man. Sherlock, on the other hand, loved cake.

 

John smiled in response and helped Sherlock up. His legs were stiff from sitting on his knees for so long. 

 

“Go wash up,” John said.   
  
Sherlock, still under the spell of John's sexual dominance, obeyed. The spell was broken when he saw himself in the mirror. Under the shiny layer of drying semen was chocolate ice cream. “ _John!_ ”he shouted, horrified that John had seen him in such an undignified state and _got off on it._  
  
John sat in his chair, his head leaned back against it in relaxation and smirked. 


	20. Ice Cream - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story with these prompts. Read the others first or this won't make a lick of sense.

John's feet met the sidewalk, each step making him think of something that was done, or said, or seen during that insufferable game.  The rain lightened and then stopped, leaving as quickly as it had arrived.  His path was the same that he had taken after every fight he and Sherlock had, his legs moving him from muscle memory alone.  The path ended for a brief time at Sarah's flat, but it had been a long time since he had even thought of her.  John turned right at an intersection when he thought of Sherlock scoffing at the obvious choices for weapons that the makes of Cluedo had chosen.  John turned left when Sherlock's words, "Maybe if I were playing with someone of higher intellect, this wouldn't be an issue," replayed themselves in his head. John finally sat down on a bench and huffed out a breath of pent up frustration as his brain landed on the knife affixing the board game above the mantle.  

 

And yet, despite how absolutely embittered John found himself with the detective, his anger couldn't linger for long.  His temper soothed itself and he began to chuckle.  Less than a day in and already John had to leave the flat in a flare of rage, neither he nor Sherlock able to keep themselves from an outburst for an extended period of time. It was infuriating.  It was enraging.  It was comforting and _normal._

There, on that park bench, John Watson found himself smiling at the absurdity of what had just occurred.  A board game.  The energy in the flat had been so heated over a fucking _board game_.  It started as a soft chuckle to himself, but it grew and took on a life of its own as after a few moments, John was doubled over and clutching the stitch on his side from laughing to the extent of his ability.  Sherlock had _stabbed_ the game with a _knife_ , and not even for the first time.  It was too much and as John wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye, he stood up to begin his walk back to the flat, an occasional giggle breaking through his demeanor.  


For some reason, John changed his route home, one that he hoped was more direct, eager to get back to see how bad Sherlock's sulk was.  Based on the fury immediately preceding John's departure from the flat, Sherlock's foul mood was bound to be spectacular.  John found himself quickening his step in order to see for himself just how bad it was, the smile only widening on his face in anticipation.   


As John turned another corner, he halted his dedicated footsteps outside of a shoppe and, if possible, his grin widened even more.  He ducked inside and emerged a few minutes later with a chocolate ice cream cone for Sherlock and a vanilla one for himself.   


"Sherlock!" John called as he walked into the flat upon returning home.  "I have something for you!"  He walked into the living room and spotted Sherlock in his chair, a definite pout turning down those plump lips.  John smiled brightly in stark contrast to the look on Sherlock's face as he handed him the chocolate cone.  


"What is this for?" Sherlock asked, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. 

"Because I wanted one for myself and thought to buy one for you," John replied.

"Yes, but you were angry at me when you left," Sherlock said in confusion.  "Mrs. Hudson was also angry.  She said I needed to apologise for driving you out of the flat so soon.  Based on what she was saying, I don't know if I _deserve_ an ice cream."   


John looked in surprise at Sherlock and wondered what Mrs. Hudson could have possibly said to Sherlock in order to elicit this sort of response.  She probably guilted him into an apology since John was home on leave for such a short time.  He almost caught himself in a laugh.  Sherlock being told he needed to apologise was as close as the detective would ever get to saying the words, "I'm sorry."  


"Water under the bridge," John said as Sherlock took the ice cream from him.  "As long as we never play that game again.  I've half a mind to throw it out."

"Then I would just buy a new one," Sherlock said with a smirk as he began to happily lick at his ice cream. 

John rolled his eyes as he sat in his own chair and began to eat his vanilla ice cream.  "Of course you would."

They ate in silence, the disastrous atmosphere form earlier having completely vanished.  Sherlock stood up from his chair when he had finished and began to walk into the kitchen to get a napkin when he stopped next to John's chair and looked down at him.  Wordlessly, Sherlock reached a finger out and moved it across the corner of John's lower lip where a blob of vanilla ice cream had been lingering, unknown by John.  


John's heart caught in his chest, his breathing halted, and his eyes widened as Sherlock's index finger gracefully and lithely danced across the lip before pulling up towards his own.  "Sherlock," John breathed, the moment hanging in the air, his body feeling as if it were in a trance. 

Sherlock seemed to realise what he was doing and moved quickly into the kitchen, waiting until he was out of eyesight before tasting the vanilla ice cream on his tongue.  He walked back into the living room and handed a napkin to John, too embarrassed to look in his eyes. 

John, however, was already trying to come up with a way to replicate the experience, to see if Sherlock would do it again.  _Maybe it's just his sweet tooth_ , he thought with a reluctant sinking feeling of realisation.  _He probably just saw the ice cream and did that without thinking_.   


Sherlock had, in fact, acted without thinking.  But it was to taste John, not the ice cream. 


	21. Ice Cream - Anne

“John, I’m hot,” Sherlock whined, splaying out his limbs on the couch dramatically. John Watson just nodded, continuing to persistently type out their latest case. He hadn’t posted anything to his blog in a long time and his most faithful readers (Mike, Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Lestrade, etc.) were asking questions. What had happened to them? Had they fallen off the face of the earth? 

 

The truth was a bit more shocking than that, although becoming Sherlock’s boyfriend had certainly felt like falling off the face of the earth. Maybe he had fallen into an alternate universe where good things happened to him, hot blokes wanted him, and he spent the majority of his time being tortured. Tortured in the best way possible, of course. After all, Sherlock complained about every small inconvenience, and it never seemed to stop. The sour detective was currently bemoaning his very existence on account of the heat, claiming that being in London in the summer was worse than finding oneself in the fiery pits of Mordor. Okay, so that one had earned a chuckle from John. 

 

In fact, John was generally blissfully happy. However, that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want anyone to know about them yet. John wanted to savor the feeling of having Sherlock all to himself for just a bit longer, in every way that that implied, he wanted to avoid the attention from their fans, and he wanted to remain completely free from all the inevitable questions that were bound to arise from his family and friends. 

 

So he typed up his case as usual, excluding the fact that after they had solved it, Sherlock had pushed him down in a cab and snogged him until he couldn’t breathe. John even neglected to mention that as soon as they had tumbled into the flat, John had fingered the great Sherlock Holmes for several minutes, and then fucked him against the door. And god, Sherlock was an incredible fuck, especially when he was full of happy energy from solving a case. For the sake of privacy. Sherlock was his, but it wasn’t anyone’s business. 

 

_Sherlock’s eyes glistened with knowledge beyond the scope of a normal, mortal mind. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, turning his powerful body as he looked from one man to the next before calmly declaring in a sultry, smug voice, “This is your killer.”_

 

It was a surprise no one could tell that they were dating, considering the way John verbally adored Sherlock. Some people suspected, but no one  _knew_ , right? John posted the case and gently shut his computer, pulling his chair back to observe his wonderful detective, the man who clearly didn’t care who knew what about them, but was letting John have his way in the interest of comfort. Sherlock was looking at him with such a pitiful look that John could help but walk over to him, laughing as he did so. 

 

“Hot, hm?”

 

“Burning.  _Dying_.“ 

 

“You’re not dying, Sherlock.” 

 

“Help me… Save me…” 

 

“Christ, bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Sherlock whimpered, pulling John onto the couch so he could bury his head in the other man’s lap and then pushing him away rudely when he realized that the extra body heat only made his situation more intolerable. John tsked as Sherlock shoved him, still laughing at how quickly the heat could drain Sherlock of the sliver of civility he occasionally possessed. John didn’t mind baking in the heat a bit. After all, he had served in Afghanistan, and the summers were (hopefully) more brutally hot than any he would ever experience again. “Okay, I’ll fix it. But it will cost you.” 

 

“How will you fix it?” 

 

“Don’t you want to know what it will cost you?” Sherlock glared at him at that, pale eyes like daggers. Didn’t John know that Sherlock didn’t care about cost? Didn’t John know that  _any_ solution to the heat would be welcome despite the potential consequences? “Okay, don’t move. I’ll be right back, Sherlock.” And with that, John grabbed his wallet and darted down the stairs out of the oppressive heat of the flat and into the oppressive heat of London. It really was incredibly hot. Luckily, John didn’t have to go far. He popped into the first Tesco he saw and then hurried back to Sherlock with his purchase under his arm.

 

“Here. Your solution,” John said as he presented Sherlock with the gift. "You can have as much as you want, but you have to fuck me afterwards.”

 

“Fuck you in what way…?” Sherlock queried, wondering if John was finally giving his permission for Sherlock to top. That would be very good. That would mean that Sherlock was completely trusted sexually. 

 

“Up to your interpretation,” John said in a clear voice, staring Sherlock straight in the eyes. The detective nodded, accepting the “cost" of John’s present and then receiving a gallon of chocolate ice cream. The good kind, as if there was a bad kind.

 

“Mm,” he hummed, going into the kitchen to get a spoon and digging into John’s offering. It didn’t “fix” the heat, but it certainly cooled Sherlock down. He even became civil enough to share some of his ice cream with John, scooping large spoonfuls for the soldier and feeling his cheeks blush as John obediently parted his lips to accept the cold sweetness. Chocolate covered Sherlock’s lips and John began eagerly kissing them, only pulling away to get his phone. Yes, a few pictures of Sherlock covered in ice cream would do nicely on his blog. A giggling, happy, human Sherlock, beaming with childish glee and high on sugar. 

 

  
_My lovely boyfriend, Sherlock_ , the caption beside the picture said. John even showed the entry to Sherlock before he posted it, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Sherlock had simply nodded, but John could tell he was relieved, and in a good enough mood to wipe chocolate ice cream on John’s nose. 

 

Here it was. Going public. Coming out. John was finally going to do it. He posted the picture of Sherlock with chocolate smeared all over his smile, and then he put his laptop away for the night, vowing that he wouldn’t check the blog again for a few days at the very least. It didn’t matter what people thought. John had Sherlock. 

 

All in all, it was a pleasant way to spend a summer day; their nightly activities were equally pleasant. 


	22. Shorts - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is: Shorts

The lights were flashing red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple and Sherlock was dancing to California Gurls by Katy Perry after treating himself to two strong drinks.   
  
The curls around his face bounced as he moved, like a moving frame highlighting different parts of his features each time they came to a land. The curls at the nape of his neck were shiny with sweat and laid steady against it. His eyes were closed as he swayed his body, looking for all the world to see as if he was completely wrapped up in his dance.   
  
In reality, he was working hard in the hopes of wrapping someone else up in what he was doing. He shifted his hips back and forth to bring attention to the curves he had to offer John Watson.   
  
And John Watson was paying attention. Sherlock could feel his eyes boreing into his body and shivers ran up and down his body as he peacocked. The motions of his hips became less fluid and a little more aggresive in the way they popped from one side to another.   
  
He knew if he lifted his arms higher his very short shorts would ride up and expose a good quarter of his arse. John liked his arse. Another set of shivers set his spine alight as Sherlock thought of just how much John liked his arse and blood started moving a little more rapidly around his body. John would see it now. He wouldn't be able to resist it.  
  
Sherlock stretched his arms up and felt the air touch more of his skin. He shook his hips, wondering if his arse bounced in real life as it did in his imagination; in perfect sync, accentuating the roundness of it and the fullness. If gravity was as cruel as everything else he'd encountered in life, his university years would see the highlight of physical appearance and he intended to make the most of it before everything sagged toward the ground.  
  
Next, he arched his back, pointing it in what he believed was John's direction. He wanted to put his hands on his arse cheeks and manipulate them so John could see just how pliable he could be and how easily they could be pulled apart to fit his obviously large cock between them. It wasn't common decency that stopped him as he didn't possess much of that, he just didn't want to attract any other people who would want to mate with him. He wanted John. This dance, his body... it was all for John.  
  
He danced until the song ended and the next began. That was when he realised that John had not come. John must have seen the obvious invitation, but he had not come to accept it.   
  
The sultry facial expression he had arranged on his face turned into a scowl and he whipped around to see what John's hold up was. He looked away as quickly again, only needing a fraction of a second to see that John was chatting up a woman and that he had not been paying attention to Sherlock at all.   
  
He forced himself to dance through another song simply to make it clear to everyone that he hadn't been dancing for John Watson even though nobody but himself knew and there was no way he could erase the fact from his own head.   
  
It was humiliation. His shorts were riding up and the ridiculous fake jean material and black colour made him ashamed of himself. Why had he thought he could seduce John? Why would a direct approach work when his degrading hints and pathetic insinuations had not?   
  
After he had finished off his dance and he had pulled his shorts down to shield himself, Sherlock looked at John again to see him speaking with the same woman. It was going well then; John did not press women who weren't interested in him. _Good for you, John,_ he thought bitterly. A visit to the bar was needed, another strong drink or two before he conceded the defeat he should have known was coming and went home to his seven percent solution.   
  
Sherlock leaned forward on the bar, no pretense left in his body and unaware of everything but the bartender that was slowly working his way toward him. It was misery waiting. He would have just gone home had he not purged his flat of alcohol two weeks prior when he had promised himself to try to stay sober. The day following, he had refilled his stash of cocaine but he had never got around to stocking back up on liquor.   
  
“Sure you want another drink?” a voice said in his ear. The recognition of the voice was momentarily hindered by the complete distraction a finger was creating by being put up his shorts and following the line of the crest of his arse. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Really sure? I can never come when I've had too much to drink.”  
  
Sherlock whipped around with the same energy he had on the dance floor. “You...” he said. His face seemed confused about whether it should look surprised, angry or turned on.   
  
“I've only had two beers tonight.” It was enough to make John loosen his inhibitions.   
  
“Too busy talking?” Sherlock asked, his jealousy making him snap. 

John grinned.

“Shouldn't you go back to her?” Sherlock said, trying to wiggle his arse away from John's finger.  
  
John grabbed Sherlock cheek with his other hand and squeezed it to make it stay in place. “Nah, Harry can fend for herself,” he said.  
  
“Harry?” Sherlock said, going still.  
  
“My sister,” John said.  
  
“Your  _ sister _ ,” Sherlock said.  _ So that was her.  _ He had been so curious to meet her and now he had ruined his first proper chance at it. It was of no matter. What was of matter was that John's finger had moved up and toward the center and  _ oh _ .   
  
“The way you were dancing in these shorts, Sherlock,  _ jesus _ , you looked like... like you wanted me to press a finger in right here,” John said.   
  
Sherlock sighed in relief when he felt John's finger slide against his hole. He didn't care if anyone saw. He wanted people to see. He had won and he was going to get what he wanted. He was going to get John Watson once John Watson had got him out of these ridiculously short shorts.   
  
  
  



	23. Shorts - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts so I suggest catching up on them all!

__  
  
The rest of the day had passed without incident, as Sherlock had hoped that it would.  Not much had been said between the two flatmates at 221b Baker Street and they both did their best to avoid eye contact altogether.  The only conversation that was had was when Sherlock looked up and noticed John was wearing different clothing.   
  
"Where did you get those?" he asked, his tone bordering on almost accusatory.  "I don't remember that button down shirt or those trousers from before you left.  When did you acquire them?"  
  
John almost asked if Sherlock had memorised his entire wardrobe, but then realised that it was impossible to live with the world's most observant man and _not_ have him know what is clothing options consisted of (especially considering it was quite limited).  New pieces would of course draw attention to themselves.  "Your brother actually bought them for me," John said.  "So that I could have clothing here for the summer.  Nice and lightweight things that will fit since I've...well, gotten a bit more muscular since the last time I spent a summer here."  
  
Sherlock made a sound of understanding before his eyes lingered on the way the fabric of the shirt clung to the muscles of John's arms.  His eyes lingered for too long and Sherlock suddenly had to busy himself at his microscope to try and clear his head about how muscular John's body would look beneath the clothes.  
  
The two shared dinner alone (Mrs. Hudson had, of course, not followed through and invited everyone over.  She had, however, brought them up some roast chicken and vegetables) and exchanged a few words before continuing on their own separate activities, the ice cream incident still vivid in their minds.   
  
"Off to bed," John said when it became late enough to be acceptable to send oneself to sleep.   
  
"Mm," Sherlock said to acknowledge that he had heard John, though his eyes didn't lift up from _The Beekeeper's Bible_.   
  
"Right then.  Goodnight."  
  
"Goodnight."  
  
Once John had walked up the stairs, Sherlock sent himself to bed as well, though both flatmates stayed awake for sometime after, finally indulging in reliving the memory of the ice cream incident and indulging themselves very, very heartily.  
  
  
Both Sherlock and John shared embarrassed, boyish grins the next day and after a few sidelong glances, John said (with his face fully hidden by the newspaper), "Fancy that walk then today that was rained out yesterday?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said, his tone uncharacteristically polite.  "That would be an acceptable plan."  
  
"Right," John said grinning, licking his lips subconsciously.   "Right then.  I'll just go and get changed then, shall I?"  
  
Sherlock nodded and John moved upstairs quickly, eager to talk a walk with Sherlock.  The detective immediately moved into his bedroom and began to tear his closet and dresser apart, looking for clothes to wear that would accentuate his body as well as John's new clothes accentuated his.  _Nothing_ worked, in his eyes.  He would need all new clothes.  He'd need to go shopping at some point.  Would John want to go clothes shopping?  Probably not.  But if the two of them were going to go to the cottage, Sherlock would want better clothing.   
  
After reluctantly settling on a very tailored and deep burgundy shirt and pair of equally tailored black trousers, Sherlock walked out of his bedroom to meet John in the living room.  His jaw dropped.  
  
John was standing beside his chair, staring idly at the fireplace in a lightweight button-down shirt and _shorts_.  Cargo shorts.  John Watson was standing in their living room in, not trousers, but _shorts_.  And Sherlock Holmes was standing in the kitchen, staring, _gaping_ at the sight.  There was no deductive reasoning going on in his brain.  All of his wires had short circuited.  His sense receptors were focused on one thing, and one thing only:  John in shorts.   
  
Sherlock noticed it then.  It was not only John's chest that had become more muscular.  It was John in his entirety that had.  Never had Sherlock considered calf muscles to be an attractive portion of the body, but in that moment he knew that John's calf muscles would entertaining his imagination when he closed his bedroom door that evening.  
  
John turned, as if he knew that he were being looked at and his lips parted at how beautifully _tight_ Sherlock's clothes were.  He cleared his throat awkwardly and said, "Well.  Shall we, then?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said, his voice tight and he fought to keep the front of his trousers from also becoming tight.  "Let's go."  
  
"Should we stop for ice cream?" John asked, testing the waters as they walked out of the front door.  
  
_Dear God, yes_ , Sherlock thought desperately.  "Sure," he said aloud, nonchalantly, his eyes darting downwards to covertly look at the way John's arse moved in those shorts. 


	24. Shorts - Anne

If the flat was normally a mess, there wasn’t a word to describe what it was now. The cushions had been torn off of both the chairs, all of Sherlock’s wardrobe had been ripped out of the closet and torn from the drawers, all the contents of the kitchen cabinets were sitting on the kitchen floor (and the bathroom floor and the bedroom floor), and still Sherlock couldn’t find them.  _Where_ , in the name of bloody Christ, were his shorts? He _needed_ them. It was  _important_. 

 

By the time John came home and found Sherlock’s mess, the detective was sulking on the couch, wearing literally nothing. It was an interesting sight to come home to, but John simply stared for a moment and then averted his eyes; after all, he had come home to worse. 

 

“Natural disaster. That’s what happened to the flat. Just my best… deduction, if you will.” 

 

“I was looking for something.” 

 

“Ah, I see. Did you find it?” Sherlock flipped onto his back to look at John, fully revealing his bare body. 

 

“No.”

 

“Going to put some clothes on, Sherlock?” 

 

“No. Clothes are boring.” John coughed lightly, trying to keep himself from staring between Sherlock’s legs. Christ, he was well hung. John could only imagine what his cock would look like when it was erect. He didn’t. Naturally. That would be inappropriate. Very inappropriate. 

 

“Can I ask what you were looking for?” 

 

“Shorts.” 

 

“You… you own shorts?”

 

“I want them for a case.” 

 

“Ah, I see. Well, you can borrow some of mine.” 

 

Sherlock simply huffed, far past frustrated at this point and only further irritated by John’s proposal. Any shorts John had wouldn’t fit him correctly. Obviously. 

 

“Okay, we’ll buy you some new ones,” John cleared his throat again, finally covering his eyes with a hand even though he knew Sherlock’s reaction would be smug. “Let me get you your sheet, at the very least.” 

 

“John, it’s hot in the flat. Besides, you’re a doctor. You deal with human bodies on a daily basis.” 

 

“You’re not a patient. You’re my flatmate.”

 

Sherlock huffed again. He was being particularly incommunicative since his unfruitful quest for his singular pair of shorts had ended so unsuccessfully. 

 

“What would you do if I took off all my clothes, hm?” 

 

Sherlock shrugged to indicate his indifference, flipping back over on his belly and puffing his arse up into the air. 

 

“Alright then.” John pulled his shirt off over his head. Sherlock didn’t respond, although John could see his neck and ears twitch when he heard the fabric hit the ground, and he could see Sherlock’s entire body tense up when he unzipped his trousers. Ah, so John had hit a nerve then. He pushed his trousers down to the floor, working his fingers under the band of his pants and snapping the elastic before stepping out of them.

 

Sherlock wanted to look. He really wanted to look. _Why_ had he flipped over on his belly? He finally lifted his arms up over his head, as if he were stretching out his whole body, and then turned onto his side, nonchalantly glancing over at John, who was indeed completely naked. He rolled his eyes, turning all the way over onto his back and looking over his flatmate more thoroughly. 

 

“Was that really necessary?” 

 

“Was it really necessary to tear apart the flat and have a nude sulk on the sofa?” 

 

“I needed my shorts.” 

 

“Looks like you’re doing okay without them.” John moved over to the couch, tapping Sherlock’s legs and grinning when the other man made room for him.

 

Sherlock grunted his assent to John’s comment and then sighed deeply before re-extending his legs out on John’s lap. He seemed relaxed, but in reality he was utterly confused. Were they going to pretend this was normal? Was this going to become normal? Approximately how many other days was Sherlock going to have the privilege of hanging around the flat naked with John? He scooted his feet further up into John’s lap, bumping the doctor's testicles as he did so. Intentional? Of course not. Okay, maybe a bit intentional. 

 

John squirmed, pushing Sherlock’s feet away and reaching for a newspaper lying on the coffee table. 

 

Sherlock sat in sulk for a few minutes longer and then let his feet wander again, grazing his toes over John’s genitalia.

 

“I know you’re curious. Probably want to take some measurements and conduct an formal investigation. But you’d better keep your feet to yourself unless you plan on giving me a hand job. Or a foot job in this case, I suppose.” John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock guffawed derisively, obediently moving his foot away as his flatmate returned to his newspaper. He had noticed, however, that John had been reading the front page for a disproportionately long time. 

 

“I think that would be impossible, unless you had a foot fetish of some sort. Then your imagination could intensify your physical response… Perhaps… More likely I could only get you hard with my feet unless you regularly suffer from premature ejaculation.” 

 

“Sherlock, shut up.” John did throw aside his newspaper at Sherlock’s comment though, abandoning the pretense of not giving a hundred percent of his attention to his flatmate.  

 

When Sherlock didn’t begin fondling him again, John began massaging Sherlock’s feet casually, only breaking the contact to drink some of Sherlock’s morning tea, which was cold and bitter enough to make John wince. His detective immediately whined, and John returned his hands to the other man’s feet, slowly extending his reach to Sherlock’s calves and then to his thighs. Sherlock fell completely silent, eerily so. 

 

“You got pretty worked up there about those shorts, Sherlock…” he said somewhat flirtatiously, both hands digging into Sherlock’s tender flesh. God, he was getting turned on. Not good. Very not good. Because while Sherlock did like attention, John had no reason to believe he had any interest in sex. It was endlessly unfortunate. 

 

“I got frustrated.” John stopped massaging Sherlock to just look at him for a moment, seeing that his best friend’s bad mood had finally abated, disappeared into the vague mists of the past. Sherlock felt things so intensely, with such childlike purity, that John couldn’t help but worry about him. By his reckoning, Sherlock had had a pretty terrible breakdown.

 

“Yeah, I know. Better?” 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. Of course it was better. Wasn’t it obvious that it was better? "Don’t stop,” he added, wiggling himself into John’s lap. 

 

John let out a tight breath, feeling himself get instantly hard. He couldn’t bloody help it; he had Sherlock Holmes in his lap. His face turned bright red, but he said nothing. There was nothing to be said. Sherlock already knew how much John wanted him. Obviously. This particular episode was only additionally embarrassing for him, an expression of his  _f_ _eelings_ , heaven forbid. 

 

To make matters worse, Sherlock couldn’t seem to get comfortable. And then before John knew what was happening, Sherlock was straddling his hips and kissing him so intensely that John couldn’t breathe. That lovely arse of his was moving up and down on John’s lap and when Sherlock finally let him catch a breath, those long arms were wrapping around him and holding him close. Sherlock nestled his face into John’s neck and the soldier could feel him thinking, picture his mind processing their situation. 

 

“You’re okay. This is okay,” he assured in a low voice, rubbing Sherlock’s back, and finally working up the courage to coax another kiss. “I’ll even help you find your shorts.” Sherlock laughed at that. John had never heard a better sound. 


	25. One Backpack - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is: One Backpack

“Mummy, I want this backpack,” John said, running up to his mother and holding up a backpack in the shape of a smiling bee.

“You do?” she asked in surprise. John had never shown any interest in anything but camouflage and simpler motifs.   
  
“Sherlock will like it,” he said. He was going to give it to him for his birthday. John had just had his birthday so Sherlock's would be next and surely it would be before the start of the school year?   
  
“Sherlock?” she asked. It felt like someone had forced an ice cube down her throat. The relationship her son shared with the youngest Holmes boy was starting to strike her as inappropriate. Why did John want to buy him gifts? It was like he had a crush on him but that couldn't be it, could it?   
  
“He likes bees,” John replied.   
  
Mrs. Watson closed her eyes. _Not another one_ , she thought. Was it because she had smoked during pregnancy that her children came out like this?   
  
“It doesn't matter if he like bees. Boys don't buy other boys presents. Go put that back,” Mrs. Watson said. She turned her back on her son and inhaled slowly. She would need a lot of patience to get her children back on the right track. God knows how they got off it in the first place.  
  
“Mummy,” John complained.  
  
“GO put that back,” Mrs. Watson said.  
  
John stared up at the back of her head and didn't understand. He knew they weren't as poor anymore since both his parents had got a job. Why couldn't they just get the backpack for Sherlock? He had to concede to his mother's authority in the end and stomped back to where he had found it.   
  
“Don't let anyone else buy you. I'm going to come back and I'm going to buy you for Sherlock. He loves bees. Nobody will love you better than Sherlock so _don't let anyone else buy you_ ,” he whispered enthusiastically to the smiling face.   
  
When Mrs. Watson came home, she poured herself and her husband a stiff drink each and then told him that their soon was showing signs of becoming what Harriet insisted she was. 

For days after John asked if he could go play with Sherlock and each time his request was refused in increasing anger. On the fifth day without seeing his best friend, John started to lie.   
  
“Can I go play with Mike?” he asked.  
  
“Mike Stamford?” Mr. Watson asked. He had just started on his first summer Saturday beer and his mood was deciding whether or not he was going to be annoyed or happy for the rest of the day.

“He got a new truck when he was in Spain. I want to play with it. Can I please?” John asked.   
  
“On you go, mate,” Mr. Watson said. He took a breath of relief. That was a normal friendship for a lad. Trucks and jealousy. Wanting to buy your friend gifts was not on.

John went to Sherlock's house and they played their favourite game. The premise was simply to annoy Mycroft as much as possible. John was happy there but he was sorely reminded of the happy bee backpack when Mrs. Holmes sent them to calm down in Sherlock's room and all the pictures of bees on the walls sent him into a mood.  
  
He lied again the next day to his parents and went to play with Sherlock. The following day he lied to both his parents and to Sherlock.   
  
“Come play,” Sherlock said on the phone to him.  
  
“Can't. I have to stay at home today,” John had whispered so his parents wouldn't hear him on the phone.  
  
“Why?” Sherlock said.  
  
“Because I have to! Bye!” John said. He hung up. Sherlock always knew when he was lying somehow so he had panicked and cut the call short even though he wanted to ask how their plan of putting toothpaste on Mycroft's toilet seat had worked out.  
  
He told his parents he was going to play with a boy named Peter. John didn't know anyone with that name.   
  
Before both his parents had got a job, John had made a habit of collecting bottles for returning so he could buy things when he got hungry. He favoured using the money he got from the bottles to  buy jam tarts but he had quickly learned that a loaf of bread lasted longer.  John's search, which lasted three whole days, wasn't about hunger anymore and yet he was still as motivated as he had been then.   
  
After three days of  lying,  walking through parks, rummaging through trash cans and staring at people until they had finished their soft drinks, John had collected and turned in enough bottles to scrape together the cash he needed. He raced back to the shops, wishing so hard that he had been quick enough and no one else had bought the backpack that he had tears pouring down his face by the time he got there.

He cried even harder when he saw it hanging there. He grabbed it and hugged it close to his chest.  
  
“I-I-I want t-to bu-buy this, please,” he said, holding out his precious gift along with the money to the lady behind the counter.   
  
“Are you alright? Are your parents here? Do you want me to call someone for you?” she asked.  
  
“ _ No! _ ”  John said in horror. He didn't want to given away at the last moment. “I j-just want to bu _ -buy­ it,”  _ he said.

The lady, still looking concerned, rung him up and placed the backpack in a bag. “There you go,” she said.

John hugged the plastic bag to his chest as he ran to Sherlock's house.  
  
“Hello Jo-” Mrs. Holmes said.

“ _Sherlock_. Where's _Sherlock_ ,” John said, pushing his way past Mrs. Holmes.  
“Up in his room I expect. Are you alright, John? Did you row?” Mrs. Holmes asked. Her son had been in a mood for what seemed like years because John hadn't been over to play for a few days. Sherlock had refused to tell her why but she could tell he was very upset about it.  
  
“No. Bye, Mrs. Holmes,” John said, not sparing her a look as he ran on his little legs up the stairs. He barged into Sherlock's room and held out the plastic bag. He was not prepared for the cool reception he got.

Sherlock's face was the meanest, bitterest scowl John had ever seen.   
  
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked angrily.

John's eyes widened and his eyes filled with tears. He was so wound up from getting his hands on Sherlock's present finally that any defense he had toward tones and words was gone.  
  
“Play with you?” John said, unsure.  
  
“Why? We aren't friendth,” Sherlock said.  
  
John started to cry, which only seemed to make Sherlock's scowl worse. “Oh. I thought we were. I got you a... got a present for you,” John said. He refused to look at Sherlock anymore. He was so embarrassed because he was acting like a baby and crying.

“Prethent?” Sherlock asked.  
  
John threw the plastic bag on the bed and ran out of the room.

Sherlock threw himself on the plastic bag and tore it open to find the most beautiful, perfect backpack he had ever seen. _A bee. John got me a bee. A perfect bee,_ he thought. Guilt crashed over him and he remembered how he had made John cry. Tears prickled in his eyes and he took a tight hold of the backpack and ran after John.  
  
“John! Wait!” he called.  
  
There was no answer. He ran down the stairs and was met with the sight of his mother on her knees, holding a sobbing John to her chest and hushing him. The tears that had been prickling Sherlock's eyes started to flow freely and he hyperventilated with the emotion.

“Locky?” Mrs. Holmes asked. She was utterly confused. She did not know what had got into the two boys and what that yellow thing in Sherlock's hand was. She held out an arm and beckoned Sherlock forward.  
  
Sherlock, who could be so reluctant to be touched, ran forward and put his curly head on her shoulder.   
  
“There, there, boys. It'll be alright. We'll have some hot cocoa and biscuits and this will all be forgotten soon,” she said softly, holding both the boys to her. It didn't last long; soon Sherlock and John were just hugging each other, sniffing. 

It turned out Mrs. Holmes was wrong; neither of them ever forgot that day, when John got Sherlock one bee backpack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know that the UK currently doesn't have a bottle scheme but they did up until the 80s SO USE YA IMAGINATION =D


	26. One Backpack - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one story using these prompts so I suggest going back and reading the other ones first =)

John and Sherlock made their way through the streets and towards Regent's Park, Sherlock trying not to make it obvious that he was still fixated on John's shorts and everything that they offered.  John had no idea that he was being ogled by his best friend and was, instead, looking all around him, absorbing as much of his city as he possibly could.  
  
"You look deep in thought," Sherlock said, pulling his eyes away from John's calves long enough to look at his face.  "What are you thinking?"  Not being able to read John's thoughts was one of the most frustrating aspects of Sherlock's life.  
  
"Just about the city," John said wistfully.  "The buildings, the people, all of it.  I always knew I was homesick but I never realised the depth of it until now.  Being back here makes me remember how much of it I missed."  
  
"You were homesick?" Sherlock asked, his tone one of surprise.   
  
John looked at Sherlock incredulously.  "Of course I was homesick," he said.  "I was pretty much homesick the second I closed to door to the flat behind me.  I told you that in my letters."  
  
Sherlock frowned.  "I suppose I thought that you felt obligated to say that because you thought you should.  Sentiment, yes?"  
  
"Yeah, it's sentiment, but it was still genuine," John said, a little hurt by what Sherlock had said.  "I meant every word of every single letter that I wrote you."  
  
"Oh," Sherlock said dumbly, immediately wanting to return to the flat and read each letter with a new eye.  "I understand now."  
  
"Alright," John said a little stiffly.  "Good."  
  
Another span of silence fell between the two flatmates as they walked, though this one was decidedly more tense than the one that had followed the ice cream incident.  Sherlock began to wonder what he could do to make John talk again, to apologise for not allowing himself to accept everything John had written to him at face value.   


"John, tell me about Afghanistan."

This was not the sentence John was expecting to hear to break the silence between them and it was with a look of utter astonishment that he turned to Sherlock and said, "What?"  


"You were telling me stories the other day and I...did not act accordingly."  Sherlock had been looking straight ahead in order to avoid any unpleasant feelings by seeing the look on John's face, but he needed to be brave and face him.  Turning his head, Sherlock's eyes met John's blue ones.  "I would like to hear."  


"Promise not to bite my head off this time?"

"I promise."

John nodded curtly.  "Right then. What should I tell you?"

"How should I know?  You know your stories better than I do."  _Tell me one that won't make me jealous.  Tell me one that won't make me want to stop you from going back there more than I already do.  Tell me one that won't thoroughly dash all of my hope_.  


"I guess I could tell you about when we were on our way back from a leave one night and the truck broke down.  It was a laugh."

"Do tell," Sherlock said, trying his best to keep a cool and collected facade, his composure completely at peace.  Internally, he was a tightly wound ball of anxious nerves.  


"So we all take our bags," John said, his mood starting to lighten up as he began to tell the story.  "And usually when we do this, there's a person who brings one backpack of what we deem to be the essentials for a trip.  Food.  Drinks.  You understand."  


"Yes," Sherlock said, not understanding how _food_ would be considered an essential when there were many more objects that he would rank of importance before food.

"Right.  So it's me, Anna, Georgie, Doyle, Paul, Rachel, and Samuel.  Georgie was the one on backpack duty and none of us even question anything until the truck starts to sputter and we're stuck.  Done.  Nowhere to go."  


"You had somewhere to go," Sherlock said. "Back to your base."

"Not at night, we didn't want to risk it," John said.  "Walking like that?  It would be unwise.  So instead, we set up camp and made do."  


"I don't know where this because _a laugh_ , as you put it," Sherlock said.

"I'm getting there.  Let me finish, you impatient git," John said in cheerful frustration.  "So what does Georgie have in his backpack?  Snacks. Four flasks of liquor from Kabul.  And condoms."  


"Oh?" Sherlock asked, his voice pinched and his stomach clenching in anxiety.  _No, no, no._

"Yes," John said, starting to laugh.  "So...we made do.  Technically we were still off duty so we all got pissed and one thing led to another and...everything in the backpack got put to good use."  John began to laugh before sighing wistfully.  "Christ, that was a good night.  Very memorable...from the parts I can remember."  


Sherlock forced his face into what he thought would have resembled a smile.  It did not. 

"God, I think I'll probably never get the sounds of Georgie and Rachel out of my head.  Three condoms.  All used up in the one night."  


Sherlock's eyebrows shot up instantly.  "Georgie and Rachel used all of the condoms that were brought?" he asked, hope saturating each syllable of  his question.

"Oh yeah," John said.  "I mean, we all knew it was bound to happen and a part of me wonders if Georgie didn't plan that all along."  


"So you didn't partake in the sexual escapades of that evening, then?" Sherlock asked, wanting to hear John say it explicitly so that it did not become something he would dwell upon. 

"Of course not," John said.  "No one there who I'd want to be with.  I haven't...at all..."

Sherlock noticed that, for some reason, John's ears reddened heavily at this statement and his own stomach flipped curiously in his stomach.  


"Alright," Sherlock said, his mind fixating on the fact that John had remained celibate while in Afghanistan. 

"So," John said, awkwardly clearing his throat.  "Was that an alright story?"  


"Yes," Sherlock said as they strolled through the park together.  "I liked that story very much."


	27. One Backpack - Anne

John had to pack quickly; his father was drunk and raging downstairs, and he knew that if he wasn’t out of the house soon, he would be dead. Literally, not figuratively. He grabbed his backpack and stuffed as much as he could inside, already dreading the moment in his uncertain future when he would realize that he was missing something vital to his survival. Chances were he would be missing something, given how fast he was packing. He didn’t have time, though. Luckily, John didn’t need much. 

 

1 toothbrush, 1 tube of toothpaste, deodorant, 10 clean pairs of underwear, 5 pairs of socks, 3 shirts, 1 pair of jeans, 1 heavy coat, 1 towel, 1 family portrait, 1 comb, 1 Bible, his passport, his birth certificate, and his life savings (which included plenty of change if he needed to make a call).

 

Run, run, run… He could hear his father tromping up the stairs, intoxicated with an insatiable thirst for blood as much as he was intoxicated with drink. Part of John wanted to stay and fight. He might not win, but he could get in a few punches, do some damage. And then he could stay; then he could have his life back. Right? Wasn’t that how it worked? Dad bloodied him up and then he was free to live? No longer. John was losing the ability to tolerate the anxious waiting, the uneasy anticipation that weighed down his narrow shoulders whenever his father wasn’t hitting him. Because if it wasn’t happening, it would be happening. And it was getting to him. He could feel his composure cracking, his mind wilting under the oppressive fear of future beatings, so it was with a final look at his room that John turned and climbed out of his window, tumbling onto the bushes beside his house, and jogging off into the night. 

 

It wasn’t easy living alone as a sixteen year old. In fact, John only made it a few months before he found himself calling Harry for help. His sister burst into tears when she heard he had been living on the streets. She was an emotional person, prone to tears and uncontrollable laughter and tantrums. And drinking. Of course, living with his sister wasn’t a permanent solution, but he could handle a few months of it. Harry helped him enroll in a school by her flat (helped him forge their parents signatures), and John threw himself back into his studies. The school was even a bit rougher than the one he had gone to when he had been living with his parents, but John was luckily able to finish his A Levels despite the term he had missed while he was off fending for himself. To his relief (and Harry’s), he was also accepted into Queen Mary’s as long as he kept his grades up.

 

John worked all summer as a day laborer, lugging building supplies around construction sites, and with some help from his sister, he was able to scrape together just over 2000 quid for his first year at university. When the summer had ended and the term was starting, he packed his all of his things into his backpack (and a ratty suitcase). 

 

1 toothbrush, 1 tube of toothpaste, deodorant, 15 clean pairs of underwear, 5 pairs of socks, 10 shirts, 5 pair of jeans, 1 heavy coat, 1 rain jacket, 2 towels, 1 set of sheets, 1 pillow, 1 family portrait, 1 comb, 1 hair brush, 1 Bible, his passport, his birth certificate, and 100 quid that Harry had given him for books.

 

John quickly got a new job on campus, taking on as many shifts as he could without letting his studies fizzle out and die. After all, he needed his medical degree. Everything would fall into place when he had his medical degree; everything  _had_ to fall into place. The sponsorship he received from the army didn’t hurt as far as covering tuition was concerned, and the fate that awaited him upon graduation didn’t even bother him. After all, John Watson wanted to see the world and he wanted to help people; the military would help him do both of those things. 

 

So it was that when all the fanfare surrounding graduation had settled, John got out his backpack and prepared for battle.

 

1 toothbrush, 1 tube of toothpaste, deodorant, 15 clean pairs of underwear, 5 pairs of socks, 4 undershirts, 1 family portrait, his passport, a debit card he had gotten while at university, and 55 quid that he had slipped into his pocket at the last minute. He didn’t need a hairbrush because his hair had been shaven off. He didn’t need to pack many clothes, because the army would be providing him with a uniform. He didn’t need the Bible, because he had long ago abandoned any pretense of faith. 

 

John did well in the army. He quickly proved himself to be a man of great compassion, staunch courage, and impeccable skill. There was even a time when he thought a life of service was the answer to the ultimate unasked question; what was he to do with his life? After all, the men he served with became his family. They formed an unbreakable brotherhood, wrought by the lonely souls of damaged men desperate for companionship, and sustained with infinite offerings of blood, sweat, and tears.

 

But John hadn’t found his answer; getting shot in the shoulder undeniably assisted him in figuring that much out. He spent a few weeks tightroping walking, one blow away from tottering through the air and into darkness. To John’s complete despair, he didn’t trip and he couldn’t jump. 

 

According to army protocol, John was permitted to keep the duffel bag he had used while in service. The disillusioned soldier didn’t let a single tear fall as he packed it, although he felt his heart imploding from within his salvaged body.

 

14 pairs of underwear (one pair had gone missing when he had been shot, and John could only assume that that was because it had been beyond saving), 5 pairs of socks, 3 undershirts (the un-bloodstained ones), 2 uniforms, 1 pair of boots, 1 family portrait, his passport, his debit card, his remaining 15 quid, and his backpack (wrinkled from being stored in a scrunched up ball for such a long period of time). Oh, and a large piece of the bullet that the doctors had extracted from his flesh.

 

John had thought that there was nothing worse than packing up his things. He had been wrong. Unpacking them was markedly worse. Officially, he was supposed to be moving in with his sister, but John had never intended to do that even though that was what he had told the army. His time as Harry’s dependent had ended. And so John did what anyone would do. He got himself a hotel room and went to the closest bar, intending with every fiber of his being to get as shit-faced as he possibly could. Maybe, if he was lucky, he would die. That wasn’t a guarantee, of course, but that was what John was hoping in the back of his mind as he donned the most normal looking of his clothes. The soldier pulled his old backpack over his shoulder (with the intention to fill it with essentials from the closest convenience store), and then he went out into the world, sporting a cane that he couldn’t help but find endlessly hateful. He hadn’t been shot in the leg. He shouldn't need it. 

 

John set his backpack beside the bar, just beginning to dig himself deep into a deep hole of drunken numbness when he heard a low, sultry voice rumbling in his ear. 

 

“Is that your backpack?”

 

John looked up into bright eyes, letting his gaze linger over creamy white skin and wild, dark curls. He saw something in that face, something deeply unsettling and profoundly alluring, something fierce and raw and uncensored. The solider didn’t know how long this stranger had been staring at his backpack or what he had seen in the worn edges and breaking zipper, but something from within John’s soul told him that this man knew.

 

“Yes.”

 

The stranger sat down beside him at that, pulling his stool as close to John’s as it could get. John wanted to run and yet he leaned in closer to the enigma instead. He was desperate to feel warm, soft skin; he was desperate to feel something good after so much pain and in the face of impending nothingness. The man must have been able to tell because he extended his hand and didn’t pull it away for a long minute of what appeared to be deep thought. Then he offered a single name that stood out in John’s tired mind like a golden beacon of hope.


	28. Lake House - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I had a terrible couple days at work.
> 
> The prompt is: Lake House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of a ficlet I wrote for Johnlock Christmas. The prompt then was Sleigh Ride, if you're interested in reading it.

To return to the place where their relationship had started increased the passion between Sherlock and John exponentially. Seeing the same surroundings, now covered with a blanket of grass instead of snow, reminded them that their relationship had not always been filled with kisses and intimate touches. It seemed like it had; it felt so natural that is was, but it had only been a little more then half a year since they had added those aspects.

Admiral and Duke were happy to see them. Or, as Sherlock remarked, happy to see the carrots and apples John had insisted on bringing with them. They had played a vital role in bringing the two together, after all, pulling the sleigh in which they had kissed the first time. John knew better than to listen to Sherlock's sneers and apparent coolness. He knew Sherlock all too well, and the fact that Sherlock was first to feed both Admiral and Duke a carrot each told him otherwise.   
  
“They are fine horses,” Sherlock remarked. Maybe John's insistence that they get out of London for a week hadn't been such a bad idea. He had felt some sense of longing for the place since his mother's passing. Perhaps coming here every so often would be healthy.  _ It's nice to get London out of your lungs _ , Greg had once said.  Sherlock had never agreed with that. He wanted London in his lungs, in his veins, in his everything until the day he died, but mixing it with some other air sometimes could be acceptable. If John went with him.  
  
” Yes, very fine,” John said. He wondered if he was about to be treated to a long monologue about why they were fine horses, how they had been bred and why exactly that was the only right way to do it, but he wasn't. 

Sherlock merely stroked the long line of Admiral's strong back. It was emotional being back at the lake house. No matter how difficult it had been between him and his mother and how much he had not visited her when she had lived here, it was still a heavy feeling to know that he could not and never would be able to again. He hadn't given it much thought in the excitement of his life with John in London, especially with the new type of excitement they shared after cases when they were alone and could celebrate another case solved or another near escape from death.  
  
But here, in the quiet of the country side after a quiet morning of sex and breakfast, there was nothing to distract Sherlock. He hated the quiet, he always had. His brain rebelled, he wasn't nearly as good as he wanted to be at deleting information and he was ill equipped to handle emotion.  
  
“John, I think I am ill. I need to go lie down,” he said stiffly. John stopped fussing with Duke and turned in surprise, looking Sherlock over.   
  
He was paler than usual and looked stiff. “What's wrong?” he asked. He put the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead which was cool and dry.   
  
“Nothing. Fine,” Sherlock replied.

“No, you're not. You just said you're ill and you're as white as a ghost,” John said.

“Ghosts don't exist, John. When you die, you're _dead_. Forever. There's no coming back,” he said. He chocked on the last word and looked pleadingly at John. Dead people didn't come back. His mother wouldn't be coming back to fuss over him and tell Mycroft off to his delight.  
  
John caught on that something was going on in Sherlock's head versus physically. “I know that,” he said carefully. He'd had little practice with this sort of thing in the last six months; Sherlock had simply been more calm.   
  
“Do you? Then why are you accusing me of being _dead_? I haven't died. I've never died. Well, I OD'd once but I was only technically dead for twenty seconds. And even so, I don't think I noticed. Mycroft did though and he told tales on me to mummy and she was upset,” Sherlock said. He was highly agitated now and the horses were starting to notice.

“Was she?” John asked. He had no idea what the right line of questioning was.   
  
“Yes, John. My mother was upset that I died for twenty seconds and then still went and died _forever_ ,” Sherlock snapped.   
  
John's breath caught in his chest. _Oh_. The only other time John had ever seen Sherlock grieve was when The Woman had seemingly died. He hadn't known how to handle then either.   
  
“Sherlock,” he said softly, trying to inject some measure of comfort into his voice.   
  
“That is my name, yes. What do you want?” Sherlock snapped.   
  
The tone sent a familiar rush through John's temper and he glared for a second before he got a hold of himself. It wouldn't do to fight.  
  
“Want to go for a ride?” he asked.   
  
“What?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“A ride. On the horses,” he said.  
  
Sherlock thought about it. “Fine,” he said. He turned without another word and worked to saddle the horses.   
  
John was a little ashamed of his suggestion. He knew he had thought of it to avoid having to deal with something he didn't know how to fix. If they were riding, they couldn't talk and John wouldn't have to face his inability to help Sherlock.

They mounted the horses and steered them out to the field next to the lake. It was a warm day, sunny with a little breeze.   
  
“Run,” Sherlock said, nudging the horses ribs with his feet. It was too slow. Life in the country was too slow. It needed to be quicker, faster. The horse needed to run.   
  
Admiral took off in a gallop, his hooves kicking up grass and dirt as he ran. John followed on Duke, a fair few feet behind. The wind caught in the clothes, billowing them and giving them a sense of taking flight. It was not unlike the feeling John had had when the had been riding on the sleigh.  
  
“Sherlock!” he called when he saw the reason that he wasn't catching up with him. Sherlock was urging the horse forward and he was responding, going faster and faster. He had to stop him before something bad happened.  
  
“ _Sherlock!_ ” John called again when he was ignored. Sherlock looked around at him and their eyes met. “Go,” John shouted and Sherlock nodded. The tears flowing down Sherlock's face had changed John's mind. Something bad had already happened   
Sherlock urged Admiral faster and John pulled Duke back. John watched Sherlock run the horse in circles in the field for twenty minutes, wiping his own eyes with the heel of his hand several times. The intensity of what Sherlock was feeling reverberated through the entire field.

When Sherlock started to bring Admiral down, his eyes, nose and lips were swollen. “I want to go inside,” he said, sniffing.   
  
“Time for a cuppa then. Mrs. Hudson sent biccies with us,” John said. He wished he were less English and could comfort with something other than a hot beverage and a sweet treat.  
  
“Yes, John,” Sherlock said. They walked the horses in the direction of the stables.   
  
“John,” Sherlock said. He sounded impatient, like he'd been asked to wait for too long and now he couldn't wait any longer. “I love you.”  
  
John's breath was taken away again and the words echoed in his head. He had never heard them before. Sherlock had never said them before, not to anyone.  
  
“I love you, too,” John replied.  
  
They smiled at each other, fully aware that they were sharing a moment that was nothing short of extraordinary for them both. Sherlock looked so soft and sweet, almost like a boy in a man's body. _He'll go back to normal soon_ , John thought.   
  
“Strong tea. Don't get it wrong like you did this morning,” Sherlock said, the bite back in his tone.  
  
Back to normal.


	29. Lake House - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts, so I'd suggest going back and reading the others if you haven't.

  
  
It was two days later when Sherlock got the phone call from his mother, first thing in the morning.   
  
"Your father and I have cleaned the house and will be out within the hour.  It's yours and John's for as long as you'd like it."  


Sherlock barely had time to thank her and hang up the phone before he was running up the stairs, taking them two at a time, eager to share the news.  Never, for a single second, did Sherlock think that John would still be sleeping.  How could he be, at a time like this?  


"John! John!" he shouted, bounding into the bedroom and causing John to bolt straight up, breathing heavily and taking in his surroundings. 

  
_The base is being attacked.  No.  At home.  The flat is being attacked.  No. It's Sherlock.  It's just Sherlock.  In my bedroom.  And I'm just in my pants under this sheet_.  John pulled it up higher.   


"Christ, Sherlock," he said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.  "You made me think we were fucking being bombed.  What the bloody hell is going on?  And _why_ are you in my room and waking me up?"  


"My mother called," Sherlock replied, his smile widening.  "Get packed.  We're leaving."

John's face was confused for a few seconds before his grin matched Sherlock's.  "I'll be right down." 

 

Sherlock was not one for extravagant spending when he could help it, but he wanted to get out of London and to the countryside as quickly as possible and so, he called and hired a car to pick them up at Baker Street and drive them right to the cottage.  He began to pace back and forth as he waited impatiently for John to come downstairs with his bag.   


The previous two days had been much of the same for Sherlock and John.  They continued to be very polite to each other, occasionally catching the eye of the other person and quickly looking away.  John would share stories when Sherlock asked, but he quickly learned that Sherlock favoured stories that did not involve any fun times that John had with his comrades, nor did he enjoy stories which showed how dangerous life was in Afghanistan.  While this limited the number of anecdotes that could be shared, John could understand why this would be what Sherlock wanted.   


John came thundering down the stairs (in shorts again, Sherlock was more than a little pleased to see), a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.  "All packed and ready to go!" he said, unable to shake the boyish smile from his face.  "When do we leave?"

Sherlock moved to the window and peered outside.  The black car was already parked and waiting. 

"We leave now."

 

The ride was quick as the car moved effortlessly through the city, eventually leaving crowded London for the openness of of the countryside.  The area was very familiar to Sherlock and he barely registered his surroundings.  But for John, his eyes were glued to the window.  He couldn't help but think of a young Sherlock being driven (usually against his will) to the cottage, staring out the family's car window, his imagination running rampant.  John dearly hoped that there would be a photo album or pictures somewhere in the cottage showing what Sherlock looked like as a child.  He would _love_ to see that.  


The car pulled up in front of a moderately sized cottage of red brick.  John looked at it in both awe and appreciation.  It was nothing ostentatious like a summer cottage for the Holmes family _could_ be, but there was no denying that his house belonged to a family who was very well off.   


"Jesus," John said as he stepped out of the car.  "Sherlock, we have this to ourselves?  For how long?"

"For as long as we would like," Sherlock replied, as he walked around to join John.  "There are four bedrooms," he said as they began the walk up to the front door.  


"Four?" John asked, incredulously.

"Four."

"That seems like too many for a cottage.  Why so many?"

Sherlock looked at John with a raised eyebrow.  "Think about it for longer than thirty seconds and you can figure it out."  


John tried to scowl as Sherlock gave him _the face_ , but he was still far too excited to make it last for very long.  He would play this game.  Less reluctantly than he usually played it, but play it, John Watson always did.   


"Alright, fine.  So four bedrooms.  Rather a lot for a cottage, but a necessity I'm guessing, based on your tone.  So one for your parents, one for you, one for your brother and... one for... I would say guests but that would be ridiculous to have a guest bedroom in addition to a room for each you and your brother."  John paused.  "But you'd refuse to share a bedroom.  So if you ever wanted guests, there would need to be a bedroom for them to have.  So four."  


"So four," Sherlock said as he nodded, pleased with John.  He took out his keys and found the oldest looking one on the ring and placed it into the lock.  Pleased with John, he smiled at him.  "Welcome to our lake house," he said, opening up the door.

There was no other word for it.  The cottage was _cozy_.  John was open mouthed as he moved from room to room, vaguely listening to Sherlock narrating the tour he was being given.  There were touches of it that John assumed were Sherlock's mother and father, sprinkled graciously throughout the cottage, but every so often, there would be a more modern aspect that John instinctively labeled as _Sherlock_.  


"I will show you to your room," he said, pulling John down a hallway.

"My room?" John asked.  "Do I get Mycroft's room?  Is there food hidden in the floorboards?  Some chocolate tucked away beneath the bed frame?  It's going to be like a scavenger hunt."  


Sherlock offered an appreciative chuckle.  Having John home to partake in making fun of Mycroft was a luxury that he was only beginning to truly appreciate.  "No, you won't be staying in Mycroft's room.  You'll be in the guest bedroom.  Coincidentally, both of those rooms are on the ground floor so if in the middle of the night you decide you are hungry and are also in the mood for an adventure, I suppose you could go into his room and search for that hidden food."  


John turned to Sherlock in disappointed shock.  "Your bedroom isn't down here?" he asked, attempting to keep his voice level. 

"No.  My room and my parents' bedroom are both located upstairs."  


"Oh," John said dully.  "So which room is mine?"

"This one," Sherlock said, gesturing to the door to his left before opening it for John.  "Go and make yourself comfortable.  Unpack.  Do whatever it is you would like to while I go drop my bag off in my room."  


"Alright, thanks," John said awkwardly.  "Reconvene in a little bit?  Meet you in the living room?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.  "Meet you in the living room."  He offered a smile smile as he backed up into the hallway and walked up the stairs.

John watched almost longingly as Sherlock moved out of sight and up to the second floor.  Softly, he close the door and moved into the bedroom.  With an almighty exhale, John flounced belly first onto the bed.  _How did I end up here?_   _One minute I'm in Afghanistan.  The next I'm back home in London.  The next? I'm sharing a fucking lake house with Sherlock.  Alone.  Just us._

John grabbed the nearest pillow and stifled his shout of mingled frustration and delight as delicious anticipation bubbled in his stomach. 

  
_I need to do it while we're here.  It has to be before we go back to London.  I need to tell him_.


	30. Lake House - Anne

 

When Victor initially invited Sherlock up to his lake house for the summer, the answer was no. In fact, even when Sherlock was packed into a car with four other blokes and an hour into the car ride, he still couldn’t believe that the answer wasn’t no. He had /said/ no. Time and time again, and yet Victor was persistent. Victor Trevor was charming, intelligent, compassionate, and direct enough that Sherlock’s no had eventually transformed before his very eyes into a yes. Against his will. Of course. After a series of angry and tearful  phone calls (when Sherlock attempted to change his yes back to a no at the last minute), he had relented. Victor wanted him up at the lake for a few weeks in the summer. Fine. There were worse things (like being home with his family). And part of him really did want to go… 

 

After all, Victor was his only friend at Cambridge. Sherlock actually did like spending time with him. He was more worried about Victor’s friends from secondary school that were invited along with some classmates he knew from university. Strangers.  _Others_. People who wouldn’t like him, and wouldn’t want to share a room with him (because he was a fucking faggot), and wouldn’t want to talk to him, and wouldn’t think of him as anything other than a freak. 

 

Soon. Not yet. 

 

Right now, everyone seemed perfectly tolerable. Of course, Sherlock hadn’t said much, and he hadn’t even met everyone yet. 

 

Mike Stamford had immediately called shotgun, which had left Sherlock to be pressed into the back seat of Victor’s car with Gregory Lestrade, and John Watson, whom Lestrade and Victor both bullied to take the middle seat because of his height. John had raised his middle finger aggressively for a few minutes, but all of the boys knew he had acquiesced from the beginning. 

 

Molly, Bill, Janine, and Philip followed in the second car with supplies and enough food to sustain them for the first week in “paradise.” He  _knew_ those people. He despised Sally, but at least he  _knew_ her. He had chosen to travel in the first car because he preferred to be with Victor even if it meant traveling with strangers. Victor would protect him.

 

“So Sherlock, you’re a posh Cambridge twat like Victor here, yeah?” Lestrade asked with a kind enough smile that sat unevenly on his face. 

 

“Um… Yes.” 

 

“Yes, Greg, Sherlock goes to Cambridge with me. As does Molly Hooper, as does Philip Anderson. I take it you’re enjoying Queen Mary's then,” Victor interjected with expert speed. 

 

“You know me. Playing rugby with these slackers, drinking too much, fucking just enough. And when I graduate, I’m going to become a police officer, catch a bunch of bad fuckers, and save your hides.” 

 

“And we thank you, but I think Johnny’s the one who will be saving our hides. Saving the whole free world from terrorism, yeah?” Watson cleared his throat at that, and Sherlock could deduce fear, excitement, and a tough masculinity that was almost pervasive. Watson was the army bloke then. 

 

Too many rugby players in one car with all their physical, manly careers, if Sherlock was being completely honest… (Actually, he found the attractive athletes simultaneously amusing and stimulating, but an intellectual like Sherlock would never admit that, not even to himself.)

 

It took just under three hours to get to Victor’s lake house, which meant that by the time they arrived, everyone was bored, restless, and hungry. The blokes who had been there before, and had apparently spent many a happy summer with Victor, immediately threw their stuff into the two rooms in the back, tore off their clothes, and jumped into the lake. 

 

Sherlock hung back with Victor, who was unpacking their things. He wanted to explore the house before he got wet. 

 

By his preliminary look around the establishment, Sherlock was reminded that Victor Trevor’s family did indeed have money just like his own did. The lake house was spacious and lavishly furnished with three large bedrooms, each containing a bunk bed and a single bed in the middle of the room. There were three bathrooms (one connected to each bedroom), a newly remodeled kitchen, a tasteful dining room, and a game room below the house that Sherlock could see up to twenty people utilizing successfully. He dumped his things into the back bedroom, where John Watson and Gregory Lestrade’s things were spread out already, taking the remaining upper bunk without hesitation. After all, he figured things would be actually be more awkward if he was with people from Cambridge considering his reputation around the school.

 

Sherlock stalked the house curiously until the second car drove up, clearly interested in where everyone else was going to stay. Janine took the top bunk in the next room with Molly and Mike, and Victor, Bill, and Philip took the remaining room. To Sherlock’s surprise, Molly set her things beside Mike’s on the large bed. Victor had introduced them over the winter holiday, and apparently things were getting serious.

 

Victor snagged Sherlock as soon as he was unpacked, pulling off Sherlock’s shirt without even asking his permission, snapping a life vest on him, and tugging him out towards the water. 

 

“Have you ever been on a jet ski before?”

 

“No.” 

 

“Okay, hold on.” Sherlock hair whipped back behind him and his eyes watered as the jet ski sped up. It was perhaps the most wonderful feeling he had ever had in his life. Possibly. Jet skis were most certainly one of his new favorite things. 

 

As soon as they cleared the alcove where Victor’s dock was, Sherlock could see that the other boys had been messing around on the water for a while. Mike was driving another one of those wonderful devices and John and Greg were hanging on to an inner-tube for dear life. 

 

Mike cut his motor when he saw them, yelling out at Victor over the water. 

 

“Help me make me a wake. I want to throw these fuckers off.” Loud laughter rang out at that and Sherlock could feel adrenaline coursing through his veins and an overwhelming sense of giddiness. This was fun. He couldn’t believe he had almost refused to go along. Victor simply nodded his assent, revving up the jet ski to intimidate the blokes on the tube and then turning and sending the jet ski full throttle across the lake. Mike followed, cutting across the water perpendicularly until the contraption behind him was swinging back and forth like a pendulum and flying into the air when it hit the waves that Victor had made. John Watson was finally propelled off the back during a particularly heinous series of bumps, and Mike raised his bright orange flag to indicate that there was a man in the water.

 

Victor pulled up beside John so he could climb into the jet ski; John did so and ended up pressed up beside Sherlock, who didn’t mind getting wet for some reason. 

 

“You should go on it, Sherlock,” John suggested with a rowdy confidence. 

 

“Maybe later.”

 

“Alright, fine. Victor, I’ll drive this one. Go get your kicks.” Victor grinned widely and then dove off the back of the jet ski, climbing onto the tube with Greg while John maneuvered his way in front of Sherlock and took over the controls.

 

Sherlock was shocked and awkward; when the jet ski started, he clung to the back of the seat, afraid to touch John and after two near tumbles over the side, John turned to him and laughed. 

 

“Are you not going to hold on? Here… grab these straps on the life vest at least. You’re allowed to wrap your arms around me, you know. There you go…” Sherlock grabbed the straps, which did require him to have his arms entirely around John, but the other bloke didn’t seem to mind. He responded by speeding up the jet ski and taking riskier and riskier sharp turns until Sherlock thought he might fall off regardless of his tight hold on the boy in front of him. John was a daredevil then, thirsting for momentary excitement, searching for a dangerous fix. On the next turn, Sherlock really did fall over the side, and John pulled up beside him to help him back in with a smug look on his face. Sherlock was soaked and a bit tangled in weeds, but he couldn’t wipe his own smile from his face if he tried. 

 

“You crazy git. You did that on purpose,” he accused. John simply shrugged, undeniably smirking as Sherlock pulled himself back onto the jet ski.

 

“Ready to go back? I’m starving.” 

 

“Okay.” Sherlock fit his arms around John’s sides and rested his face on John’s shoulder, holding him close.

 

“You’re wet, idiot.”

 

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered sheepishly, separating his body from the other bloke’s. 

 

“Well, it’s too late now. Go on. I get the impression you’re quite the cuddler.” Sherlock blushed at that, glad that John couldn’t see his face, and he did indeed continue to adhere himself to John’s back as they headed back to the dock.

 

Dinner (a few pizzas) was uneventful, and actually pleasant. It was only afterwards, when everyone was relaxing with margaritas and cold beers that an incident occurred. 

 

“I hate gay people.”  _What?_ Sherlock thought to himself, eyes narrowing in annoyance, and body freezing up in shock. This was the 21st century. He knew there were people who disapproved of homosexuality, but he had never heard something as direct that. 

 

“You’re drunk.”

 

“I’m not  _drunk_. I’ve just never met a gay person I like. Gay blokes are just so… feminine. They like fashion and glitter and Lady Gaga. And I really hate the way they talk. So affected… It’s weird. It’s not natural for two men to be together.”

 

“That’s fucking ridiculous. You can’t just say stuff like that out loud, Bill.”

 

“What? You want someone’s cock up your arse? It’s disgusting. Fucking twinks.” Sherlock’s whole face turned bright red, and he excused himself, retreating into the safety of the nearest bathroom. He shouldn’t have come. Moments later, as Sherlock was trying to gain some composure, he heard a rap on the door. _Victor?_  


 

“Hey, you okay?” _John._  


 

“Fine.” 

 

“Too much to drink?”

 

“Sure.” 

 

“If you’re puking, I’ll hold your hair, princess. Skinny thing like you probably had too much after the first drink.” Sherlock smiled weakly at that, opening the door to John Watson, who had clearly had too much to drink himself. 

 

“Really, I’m fine.” 

 

“Damn, what’s wrong?”

 

“Hm?” 

 

“You’re upset.”

 

“Am I?” John let himself in and shut the door behind him, clearing his throat (as was his nervous habit), and giving Sherlock an affectionate slap on the back. 

 

“What is it?” 

 

“I’m gay.” Sherlock hadn’t meant to say it. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t John’s bloody business. The drink had lubed up his tongue, he supposed, caused his secret to slip right out after some simple probing. Mycroft would be disappointed in his lack of resolve and his disregard for his own privacy. He shouldn’t have told John. For all he knew, John agreed with Bill. 

 

Sherlock could see the revelation overtake John’s face, and it soon settled into a grimace. 

 

“I’m going to tell that fucking moron to shut his big fucking mouth. Don’t worry about it. Does Victor know?”

 

“No. Victor doesn’t know. You don’t have to…”

 

“It’s fine. It’s all fine. Does anyone know?” 

 

“Um… There’s a bloke… Back at school… I… Yes, he knows.” Despite the seriousness of the conversation, John giggled mischievously, hitting Sherlock on the shoulder again conspiratorially. 

 

“Mm, and does this bloke have a nice arse?"

 

“… It’s okay.” 

 

“Yeah, I bet he’s fucking hot. Attractive bloke like you probably has his pick of the men.”

 

And then Sherlock Holmes kissed John Watson.

 

“Woah, I’m not…” 

 

“I’m sorry. Very sorry. Go back to the others. I’m fine.” 

 

Sherlock began to turn away, but John caught him by the arm and pulled him into another kiss, letting one of his hands drift down to squeeze Sherlock’s arse. 

 

John was strong; lean, powerful muscles stretched over his entire body, and it was those muscles that enabled him to lift Sherlock up and push him against the wall. Sherlock's legs wrapped around John’s back and his whole body undulated against John’s desperately as the other bloke held him in place. A spare roll of toilet paper went flying; a half used container of sunscreen was pushed from the counter next to them to the floor and squirted out its contents when John misstepped and ground it into the tile. John either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Hands pressed down the sides of Sherlock’s body, tracing his lines and curves, indulging in soft, pale skin and the plushness of flesh.

 

Sherlock moaned loudly and suddenly there was a knock on the door. 

 

“Everything okay in there? Someone losing their dinner?” 

 

“No, no one is sick,” Sherlock replied, trying (and failing) to keep his voice under control. John put him down with a thump and opened the door to Victor, whose mouth dropped open when he was met with flushed faces, mussed up hair, and panting. Then he burst out laughing.

 

“I see. Going to come back out or would you rather snog each other to death in the bathroom?” 

 

“I would rather snog Sherlock,” John answered bluntly, running a hand through his hair. “But I suppose we can come back out. If you give us both another drink, that is, and let me snog him out there.” Victor pulled them out, and handed them each a drink. Looking around the table it was clear that everyone knew what had happened, but Bill was the only one with a sour face. To make the situation even better, John couldn’t seem to keep his hands off of Sherlock for the rest of the night, or for the rest of the holiday for that matter. To much playful teasing from the rest of their party. He did indeed continue to kiss Sherlock. He even pulled Sherlock into his lap to kiss Sherlock and shared a bed with Sherlock and kissed him in there. Sherlock wasn’t complaining. He wasn’t even complaining when John stayed behind with him when the others went off-roading in Victor’s jeep and fucked him so thoroughly that he started crying from the sudden rush of emotion. (Which terrified John until Sherlock explained that everything was okay.)

 

Sherlock had friends when he was at the lake. He had people joking around with him, putting up with his bad behavior, and caring for him in a way he had only ever had from Victor before. More importantly, Sherlock had John. He had John in the mornings, with his arms draped around Sherlock’s body in bed. He had John in the afternoon, the boy’s brilliant body covered in water or warm from laying out in the sun. He had John in the evenings, generally a bit tipsy from margaritas and beers and screwdrivers. He had John in the nights, making a big fuss over him regardless of who was watching and carrying him to the bedroom.

 

The car ride back to the city felt infinitely shorter than the one there. Sherlock slept in John’s lap for most of the trip, only breaking up his nap with short conversations that ultimately meant nothing and led nowhere. After all, they hadn’t talked about what happened with them when the holiday ended. John had tried to bring it up, but Sherlock had only scowled until the topic of conversation turned to better things. 

 

“So… this is it?” John asked carefully as Victor helped unload Sherlock’s things from the car. 

 

“Yes. This is it.” 

 

“Are you going to call me?” 

 

“I prefer to text.” 

 

“Are you going to text me?” If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would say John was upset. The other boy’s face was wrinkled in discontent, anger, possibly grief. 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock finally said in an annoyed voice, grabbing his bag. John face hardened at the rough treatment and he turned to return to the car. “John, where do you live?” 

 

“I’ll be living with Victor. I’ve been… permanently ejected from my parent’s house.”

 

“Why aren’t you living with me?” John smiled at that, lumbering over to Sherlock again and giving him a long kiss. 

 

“I thought you preferred to text.” 

 

“Oh. Well, yes. But having you within shouting distance even better, if I need something.” Sherlock swallowed thickly at the thought of what came next, but he continued despite his fears. "Please. Spend the summer here. I _need_ you to spend the summer here.” 

 

“Yes,” John replied, pulling his bag out from the trunk and setting it beside Sherlock’s on the pavement. “Yes, I will stay with you."


	31. Summer Romance - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry these are late! I need a weekend to recover from my weekend. 
> 
> Anyway, the prompt is: Summer Romance.

“Thhhh! They're in there. Let'th thneak,” Sherlock said. He took John's hand pulled him into the little wooded are they had followed John's sister Harry and her friend Clara to. They wanted to know what older people did.   
  
John's heart was pounding in his chest and he held on tightly to Sherlock's hand. It was so exciting. It was like detective work they saw on Scooby Doo except it was _real._ John had tried to spy on his sister before but he wasn't very good at it and he'd always been caught and been yelled at. Once his sister had smacked him and they'd both got in trouble with mum and dad.   
  
And then one day, Sherlock had started in his class. He was three years younger but already as tall as John and far smarter. They'd been thick as thieves from the very first day and their teachers had soon learned that the only way to keep Sherlock in check was to keep John in check. They weren't very good at keeping John in check. They marveled over how the two boys managed to cause so much trouble in class and yet be the two top performers.   
  
John had taught Sherlock how to talk to other children and in return, Sherlock had taught him to sneak on his sister.    
  
“You're making too muthh noithe. _Thhh!_ ” Sherlock hissed when John stepped on a dry branch and it cracked.  
  
Harry didn't seem to notice. Neither did Clara. They were far too busy talking and giggling.   
  
John gasped when his sister took Clara's face and kissed her _right on the lips_.   
  
“Interethting,” Sherlock whispered.   
  
Clara stared, apparently dumbstruck, at Harry. Harry blushed and took a few steps back and started to talk quickly.   
  
The boys couldn't hear what she was saying but could tell she was upset.   
  
Clara started to blush, too, as she listened.   
  
“Harry jutht thaid the'th thorry,” Sherlock whispered.   
  
“How do you know?” John whispered.  
  
Sherlock was going to say he had read her lips but ended up just gaping.  
  
Clara had taken Harry's face in her hands and kissed her.   
  
John gasped again. “What are they _doing_?” he whispered.   
  
“Kithing. They're _kithing_ ,” Sherlock said.   
  
And they were. Harry's arms were around Clara's waist and they looked like they were would not emerge from each other's lips for a while.   
  
“Kissing,” John said. It sounded very adult. Was that what older kids did? Was he supposed to do it with a boy like his sister was doing it with a girl?  
  
“Kithing,” Sherlock whispered. He had read about it in his mother's romance novels. “The'th having a _thummer romanthe_.”  
  
“Ew!” John called out when he saw Harry put her hand on Clara's breast.   
  
“ _Thh!_ ” Sherlock said. He put a hand over John's mouth to quiet him. John tried to push it off but Sherlock was stronger than he looked. John had no choice but to lick it.  
  
“ _John_ ,” Sherlock said, looking at his hand in disgust before wiping it on his shorts.  
  
“Oi!” Harry called.  
  
John and Sherlock froze. They had been detected.  
  
“You little fucks!” Harry's voice said. It was closer now.  
  
“ _Run_ ,” Sherlock said, taking John's hand again and taking off.

 

They ran as fast as they could to Sherlock's house. John decided on the run to call home and ask if he could sleep at Sherlock's until Harry wasn't so mad anymore.  
  
“Why are you two out of breath?” Mycroft asked when they stumbled through the door.   
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust when he realised that Mycroft was Harry's age. Did Mycroft kiss people in the forest too?   
  
“Ew,” Sherlock said.  
  
“What? What's going on? What have you done?” Mycroft said.   
  
“ _Nothing_. Go away, _Fatcroft_ ,” Sherlock said. He took John's hand once more and they disappeared up the stairs to Sherlock's room.   
  
“Harry was _kissing,_ ” John said when they had regained their breaths.  
  
“Yeth. Thhe wath kithing. Kithing _a girl,_ ” Sherlock said. “Tho intereththing.”  
  
There was another silence as they both tried to work out the events and what it meant in their own lives.  
  
“Do you... Do you think we should kiss?” John asked.  
  
“Hmm. Yeth,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Okay,” John said. He put his hands on Sherlock's cheeks like he had seen Clara do to Harry. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Sherlock's and held them there, completely still. Both their eyes were wide opened and they stared at each other. The seconds ticked by and they stood just like that, unmoving.  
  
“Kithing ith boring,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yeah. Want to play detective?” John asked.   
  
“Yeth! Fatcroft can be the baddie, John. I think if we climb the tree outside his window we can see what he's doing,” Sherlock said. 

They disappeared back outside and kept playing.  



	32. Summer Romance - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts, so check out the other entries first!

__  
John forced himself out of the bed and to his feet.  Something in his body was pushing him forward, pulsing through his bloodstream with each beat of his heart.  It was the same feeling he had when he was in Afghanistan.  The same feeling he had when he was in the middle of a case with Sherlock.  Adrenaline.  It made John want to act, want to move, want to do something.  
  
So he did.   
  
"Sherlock?" he called as he walked out of his room.  His entire body felt alive with nervous and excited energy.  He would tell him now.  First thing.  It would be like ripping off a bandage.  If it blew up in his face, they could leave the lake house and return to London, with John having the ability to busy himself with everyone else there who he knew before going back to Afghanistan.  And if it didn't blow up in his face...  "Sherlock?" he called again.   
  
"Just a moment," the voice came from upstairs.  "Make yourself comfortable.  I will be down shortly."  
  
John nodded to himself and moved into the living room, pacing back and forth.  What should he say?  _Sherlock, there's something I need to tell you.  You might already know because, well, you're you.  But my feelings for you are...No, that sounds stupid.  He hates stupid.  Be confident.  Sherlock, I have feelings for you.  No, that's too vague.  He'll think I'm an idiot.  But then again, he already thinks that._  
  
"Christ, I'm losing my mind over this," he muttered to himself.  "It's just Sherlock.  Just tell him.  Calm yourself down so you don't look crazed when he comes down here."  Slowly, John looked at the bookcases, the titles being seen, but not read.  It wasn't until John got to the end of one of the shelves did he realise that some of the thicker and larger books had no titles on the spines at all.  Curiously, he pulled one at random and opened it.  A smile started to tug at the corner of his lips.   
  
  
Sherlock had been upstairs, pacing back and forth in his room, his fingers moving wildly at his sides.  John was downstairs waiting for him.  John was here.  Home.  In his family's cottage.  And they were alone.  No one to interrupt them.  No one to  distract them.   
  
It was almost unbearably too much for Sherlock to process.  John had called up the stairs for him going on five minutes ago.  There was not much else Sherlock could do without leaving John alone for too long.  Taking a collecting breath to try and get his mind to settle down, Sherlock walked down the stairs and into the living room where John was reading something.  No, not reading. Just looking at something.  Looking at...  


"I see you've found the family photo albums," Sherlock said, a hint of disdain in his voice.

John grinned up at Sherlock but there was something off about the smile, a tightness in John's eyes.  Sherlock was waiting for the teasing, for the jokes about Mycroft's weight, for John to say something about how unruly Sherlock's hair had been as a child, but there was nothing.  Just a half-smile that did not reach John's eyes.  


"Which album is that?" Sherlock asked slowly, wondering what John had seen that was making him act so peculiar. 

"One from when you were a teenager," John said quietly, slowly moving his eyes back to the pages.  "I saw the ones of you when you were younger, but then I pulled this one.  Pretty interesting."  


John's voice was forced.  Tight.  Formal.  It was all wrong. 

"Interesting in what way?" Sherlock pressed. 

"Who is this?" John asked, his tone forced with innocence as he turned the photo album so Sherlock could see.  There, on the page, was a photograph taken by his mother of him sitting down by the lake, a tall boy his own age beside him.  Their faces shared smiles and laughter, a private moment of happiness caught on film.  


"Victor Trevor," Sherlock said simply.  "An old friend of mine."

"Friend," John said, and the word seemed to be heavy with disbelieving weight as it fell from John's lips and landed with a thud in the pit of Sherlock's stomach.  


"Yes.  A friend."

"Not according to your mother."

Sherlock took a quick breath in.  "What?"

John turned forward another page and there was a picture of Victor and Sherlock walking down a beaten path together, the picture taken from behind them so only the backside of their bodies were showing.  The mess of dark curly hair could only be one person, though.  The boy next to him had his arm draped around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him in close as they walked.  Beneath the picture was Sherlock's mother's very small and precise handwriting.  _Summer Romance._  


"Ah," Sherlock said softly.  "My mother thinks she can be quite the comedienne from time to time."

"Was it?"  John's voice was constricted and gritty.   


"Was it what?"

"A romance?"

"Not in the sense that my mother is implying."

There was silence.

"In what sense, then?" John asked, his voice still constricted, though there was less conviction in it now.  It was hollow and defeated.  


"I had a crush.  It was unrequited.  Nothing ever came of it."

More silence followed.

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock said slowly, watching as the hard set lines on John's face did not reflect anger, but of a deep sadness he could not identify.  "I don't understand why you're so upset by this."  


"First of all, I had no idea," John said in the same flat tone, his eyes locking onto Sherlock's.  "I had no idea this _Victor_ person even existed. You never told me about him."  His voice began to rise.  "Never, in all of our time together, has he ever come up.  Mr. "I Don't Have Friends," did, in fact, have a friend.  A really good one and close one, based on these pictures.  One who he wanted more from.  And he never told me."  John's eyes fell back to the book and he closed it sharply and placed it on the coffee table in front of him.

Silence again.

For a few moments, the only sound was John's heavy breathing, fast at first while his temper raged internally, but each inhale becoming longer and deeper as he began to calm himself. 

 

"First of all," Sherlock said to break the dense quiet and stillness that had fallen on them and felt almost suffocating. 

"What?" John asked in confusion, looking at Sherlock with disbelief.  Where was the apology?  Where was the excuse?  Where was any sort reasoning for the behaviour?  For leaving John in the dark?  


"You said, 'first of all,'" Sherlock said.  "Implying that there is a second of all.  What comes after first of all, John?  What comes next?"

Silence. 

 


	33. Summer Romance - Anne

“I’m not going to that movie with you.”

 

“Come on, Sherlock. The theater is air conditioned. The movie will be… enjoyable.” 

 

“The movie will be trite and insufferable.” 

 

“I certainly hope so. It’s a summer romance. They’re sort of supposed to be that way.” 

 

“Can’t you invite someone else?” 

 

“Mary can’t go. Come on, I haven’t seen you in a couple of months. We might as well.”

 

“Glad to hear I’m a suitable substitute for your wife.” 

 

“What do you want?” 

 

“Chocolate.” 

 

“Done.” 

 

Sherlock wanted to go to the movies with John, although he made the proper fuss. After all, John hadn’t contacted him in two months and then had suddenly appeared in 221B with movie tickets and an irresistible boyish grin; Sherlock was only human. And he loved John. He missed John. He wanted to spend time with John. He would do anything for John. However, he would rather not be seeing a pointless summer romance movie. He would rather be elbows deep in blood and simultaneously moments away from catching a criminal after nearly dying driving into a train during a car chase. With John. God, he loved having John on cases with him. His best friend always had more energy when he had a gun in his hand and adrenaline pumping through his veins. 

 

The movie was nice too, though, Sherlock conceded once they had found seats, if only because it was dark enough that he could comfortably stare at John for long stretches of time and not be reprimanded, or even noticed. 

 

John ostensibly watched the movie. Sherlock ate chocolate, only vaguely catching parts of the plot, so when John tugged his arm and pulled him to the back of the theater, Sherlock didn’t complain. In fact, he enjoyed laughing under his breath as John led him up the stairs and into a secluded corner. Only one other viewer sat in the middle of the theater and she was texting profusely and ignoring the film, which made the movie theater the perfect spot for Sherlock and John to talk as they cooled down from the summer heat. 

 

John told Sherlock about his life with Mary, about how much he missed the cases, about how much he missed Sherlock. He talked a lot about the baby, Charlotte, about her little hands and her blue eyes, about the way her voice sounded when she laughed and all her different cries. Sherlock listened carefully with the mind of a scientist, trying to absorb as much as he could. He loved the baby. The last time he had visited the Watsons, he had fallen asleep curled up with Charlotte, her little body resting on his belly. 

 

Sherlock told John about crime scenes, especially the particularly interesting cases John had missed, which only fueled the other man’s nostalgia. He talked about Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Baker Street. He talked about Speedy’s and the time he had actually sat down and watched all the Bond movies because he was missing John so much. He told John that he loved him. Again. Just to reiterate his feelings on the matter from the last time he had talked about them at wedding. He also discreetly mentioned that John's specific skill set would be exceedingly helpful to him on cases, as it always had been. 

 

Maybe it was the look in Sherlock’s eyes, or the way his hair perfectly framed his face, or the hushed tone of his sultry voice, but John couldn’t stop himself from kissing those plush lips. The kiss was soft, tentative, tender… John’s hands cupped Sherlock’s cheeks gently and he stroked the pale skin with his fingertips before he leaned in for another kiss. 

 

And suddenly, John was pushing Sherlock back into his seat in the darkened theater, sucking on his neck, grabbing at his sides, and slipping a hand into rapidly tightening trousers. Hot skin, wet lips, sexy Sherlock… And John Watson was allowed to indulge. John was _devouring_ Sherlock. And Sherlock was devouring him back, nipping and squirming under John’s rough hands. Sherlock was even getting hard; John could feel the erection jutting into his thigh, and he finally couldn’t help but press against it with his hips until Sherlock was whispering obscene curses into his ear. 

 

“Fuck… John… Jesus fucking…” John was dominating him, straddling his flatmate’s hips ruthlessly, and then Sherlock finally began to push back, tugging on John’s collar to get better purchase on his neck. In fact, turning on Sherlock was like turning on an electric generator; suddenly power was surging from Sherlock’s body, filling the air around John until he was drowning in a helpless mess of desire. 

 

“Think I can make you come in your pants?” Sherlock whispered seductively, spurring John to speed up his thrusting. He pulled Sherlock’s head back by his hair in a wordless challenge, and Sherlock let out a moan so breathless and strained that John’s already erect cock pulsed violently.

 

“I’m not going to come in my pants, Sherlock. You’re going to take me back to the flat and I’m going to fuck you until you can’t remember your name. And you’re going to come first; you’re going to come apart for me.” 

 

“Am I?” 

 

“Yes, because you’re mine. Sherlock, you’re mine.”

 

“Yes, I know. I’m yours.”

 

“And I’m yours.” 

 

Sherlock stopped reciprocating John’s affection at that. His body became stiff and unyielding, and John began to panic from the shock of the sudden change. Moments ago Sherlock had been adoring him, and now they were staring at each other with a different sort of intensity.

 

“No, you aren’t,” Sherlock finally spat out, his eyes flashing with hurt. 

 

“Yeah, you’re mine and I’m yours,” John demanded, growing rougher with his embraces in an effort to inject passion back into the empty shell that was Sherlock Holmes. To no avail. Sherlock was gone again, somewhere far away where John would never find him.

 

“No, I’m yours. You’re Mary’s. And… I’m actually busy. I have cases. Obviously. So I’m going to request you let me up. This movie is ridiculous anyway.” 

 

“Okay, Sherlock,” John barked as he climbed off of Sherlock’s lap, irritated, frustrated, and more hurt than he had been in a long time. "Why is this movie so ridiculous anyway?” Sherlock had rejected him. Again. Why did Sherlock always reject him? 

 

“Because it never works that way,” Sherlock yelled, throwing his finger at the screen, gathering his coat, and heading for the exit sign. “My observations indicate that it is exponentially more likely that the people you’re in love with get married to other people, have their own children, and leave you. So fuck you.” 

 

“Why is everything always  _my_ fault?” 

 

“John, this  _is_ your fault. This is definitely your fault!” 

 

Sherlock was gone before John could say anything else, and the theater instantly became unspeakably empty without Sherlock's lithe body and big personality, as if all the color in John’s life had faded to a lifeless grey. It was as if a deep gash had been reopened, and John’s blood drained from his chest, leaving him empty and lifeless and shittier than he had been since he had first moved out of 221B. 

 

So John stayed in his seat and watched the final scene of the movie. He had missed everything except for the beginning, but the whole summer romance thing wasn’t exactly difficult to figure out. Boy meets girl, they both have funny best friends, they encounter some trivial problem, they break up, and then they get back together. The end. 

 

Nothing like what he had been through with Sherlock. Sherlock was his best friend, and they had endured war and injury and tragic loss. And things weren’t okay. Not only were things not okay, but they were more complicated than John could tolerate. Hell, he had almost cheated on his wife. He had certainly wanted to. He still wanted to. John wasn’t even thinking about Mary, the person he had vowed to spend his life with; the only thing in his mind was how badly he wanted Sherlock. 

 

On screen, the bloke kissed the girl as the sun went down. In reality, Sherlock found himself a body to examine and recommenced his missing of John. John Watson sat alone in the empty theater, letting heavy tears soak his face as he finally allowed himself to grieve. 


	34. A Pocket Knife - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is: A pocket knife.

John had never paid any mind to the stack of letters Sherlock kept stabbed to the mantle piece by a pocket knife. He'd noticed it but only marked it down as another one of the strange irregularities that the Baker Street flat held.   
  
One rainy summer's day when Sherlock had long since left the flat in a bored tantrum, John's eyes wandered around the flat for a lack of anything else to do. His eyes came to the mantle and curiosity struck him. Sherlock was, as his yelling and stomping that morning had illustrated, prone to dramatic outbursts, but John wondered what kind of letters would be worthy of being stabbed through because of their existence?  
  
The top envelope was neatly addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street and dated three months before. John pulled the pocket knife out after a look over at the door to make sure Sherlock hadn't sneaked up the stairs just to catch him in the act.   
  
  
_Sherlock,_

 _This could very well be my last letter to you. I hope the realisation stops this silent treatment you've been giving me. I know you've moved on. I've seen your pictures with him and the way you look at him is the way you looked at me. I understand. I don't want it to be like this though. It feels unnatural for us not to speak._  
  
I'll always love and care for you. I suppose if you ever need my care, you'll find me.

 __  
Please.  
  
Victor.  
  
A frown had appeared on John's face as he read through the letter twice. It sounded almost romantic. But it couldn't be. Sherlock wasn't like that. 

He picked up the next envelope, which was dated four months before and had two stab marks through it along, and read it.

 

_Sherlock,  
  
Don't you miss me? I miss you. Earlier today I thought about what it was like to brush my fingers through your hair and watch your eyes close. You have sensitive follicles. I wish you would have been nice to kiss you when you had your eyes closed like that. I wish you would have let me.  
  
I miss you.  
  
Victor  
  
_ John's fingers tightened around the edges of the paper. Who the  _fuck_ was this? He grabbed the next letter and the letters after that until he had read two years worth of what could only be described as pining. Some letters were clearly replies to letters Sherlock had sent Victor. What had Sherlock written in them? Had he reminisced about Victor's fingers dragging through his curls and how his sensitive fucking follicles had reacted?

It was toward the evening when Sherlock returned, slightly damp and his expression much less sour than it had been when he left. He froze in the doorway. Something was not as it had been when he had left. His eyes scanned the living room and he decided that the difference had to lie in the bookshelves or fireplace.   
  
”Hello. Turned up have you?” John said from his chair.  
  
“Mm,” Sherlock said. The bookcases were as they had been. He focused in on the fireplace.   
  
“Where have you been?” John asked. Sherlock had not yet spared him a look and hardened the already hard look on John's face further.

  
“Out,” Sherlock said. His feet had carried him to the mantle and he pulled his fingers over the cool surface of it. “You've read my letters.” _And stabbed them back in place with more force than I used._  
  
“Yes, I have. Interesting read,” John said.   
  
“Isn't it one of those law things that you can't read other people's post?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Just evening out all the times you've gone through my things,” John said.  
  
“You're angry,” Sherlock said, finally turning around and looking at John.  
  
John didn't answer him. It would lead to the inevitable question of why and he wasn't sure he had an answer to that.   
  


“You read letters from Victor Trevor and now you're angry?” Sherlock asked. “Why would they make you angry?”  
  
Apparently there was no escaping the question of why. John answered with a silent stare before getting up and going to kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.  
  
Sherlock followed, like a bloodhound on the scent.  
  
“Why? You read Victor's letters to me and now you won't speak to me. You haven't left your chair all day, that is clear from the stiffness in your walk and the wrinkles in your clothes. You sulked all day,” Sherlock said.  
  
“I didn't sulk,” John said sulkily. 

“You sulked. You're still sulking. Surprised I had another friend before you?” Sherlock said.

  
“Friend?” John snorted. “Friends don't want to snog their friends and touch their hair.”  
  
It was Sherlock's turn to be quiet.  
  
“You...” Sherlock said. He sounded extremely uncertain about his train of thought. It brought John a sense of victory that was completely eradicated when Sherlock spoke again. “You're jealous. You're jealous of Victor. You want to... want to touch my hair?” 

John couldn't lie. Sherlock always knew when he lied. 

The silence dragged while John stirred his tea, too afraid to turn around and face his flatmate and be pressed for an answer.   
  
But Sherlock didn't need an answer. John would have protested if the answer was no. He stood himself next to John and leaned over, his curls falling forward and his nose ending up rather precariously close to a mug of piping hot tea.   
  
He waited.  
  
John stared.  
  
He waited.  
  
John brought his hand to Sherlock's head and gently pulled his fingers through the curls. His lips fell open when he saw Sherlock shiver in response.   
  
A new warmth was suddenly on John's body.  
  
“Did you touch his arse, too?” he asked.

“No,” Sherlock said. He had meant to grab John's hip to steady himself but he didn't move his hand.   
  
“Alright. Good,” John said.  
  
“I believe the letters stated, correctly, that I didn't kiss him either,” Sherlock said.  
  
There was something of an offer and a promise in Sherlock's words. John pulled lightly on a curl in response. A low hum emanated from Sherlock's throat.

 

“Good,” John said.


	35. A Pocket Knife - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these promps. Check out the other entries!

__  
  
"John?" Sherlock asked, waiting for a reply from him.  "What is going on?"  
  
"Sherlock, I can't," John said, softly.  All of his confidence and adrenaline from earlier had evaporated, instantly disappeared with the presence of one stranger in a few photographs in an album.   
  
"Can't what?  John, your actions and your words don't make sense.  I don't understand why you are reacting this way.  It is more than you being unaware of Victor's existence, but what exactly the more is, I don't know."  
  
"Deduce it," John said, gruffly.  "If you're so bloody brilliant and such a genius, then fucking figure it out.  You leave me in the dark about Victor?  Then I'm sure as hell not going to tell you a damn thing now.  _You_ can be the one in the dark."  John walked out of the living room, through the kitchen, and out the back door.  His feet and the blood pounding in his ears were guiding him through the unfamiliar grass and dirt paths, leading through some tall and towering trees.  John walked forward, the ground slanting downwards and the lake came into view with each nearing step.   


Eventually, the ground started to level and John came to a little area clear of the trees.  His head was aching from everything that had just happened.  A few feet in front of him, the lake water danced around the shoreline.  Half an hour ago, everything was so promising.  Now? John felt his world collapsing around him.  On some level, he recognised that he was overreacting and that his jealously was controlling him, but he could not stop it once it started.  There it was in front of him, recorded in words and pictures by Sherlock's own mother.  Summer romance.  Confirmed by Sherlock's words.  _I had a crush._   Sherlock was attracted to men.  This should have been a comfort for John since it gave an opening, a chance.   


But a memory of an older conversation dashed any hope. 

_"Girlfriends. Boyfriends."_

_"Like I was saying.  Dull."_

_"Don't have a girlfriend then?"_

_"No.  Not really my area."_

_"Oh, right.  Do you have a boyfriend?  Which is fine, by the way."_

_"I know it's fine."_

_"So you've got a boyfriend?"_

_"No."_

_"Right.  Okay.  You're unattached.  Just like me.  Fine.  Good."_

_"John, I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for anything-"  
_

 

So there it was.  John had inquired and Sherlock had rejected.  For whatever reason, he wasn't the great detective's type, but this Victor Trevor person was.  It was eating away at him.  Who was this person?  What was he like?  How could he have captured the interest and affection of Sherlock Holmes when no one else could?  


John let out a sigh and turned his head to look around him for the first time.  The area was so tranquil and peaceful that John wished his mood didn't clash so horribly with it.  If only he hadn't looked at that photo album.  But then he wouldn't have known at all since Sherlock clearly was never planning on telling him.  _Stop.  Breathe.  Look around at where you are.  Focus on that_.  _There's nothing out here but you._

John took a deep breath, the fresh air saturating his lungs.  If he were going to spend the next few days at the lake house with Sherlock, he would need to get himself under control.  Another outburst like that, and Sherlock would know what he was hiding, if he hadn't figured it out already like John had dared him to. 

With a sigh, John looked at the trees around him and tried to let the natural order of things calm him, which was working until his eyes landed on something on the tree next to him.  He moved closer and his stomach lurched.  Carved into the bark were two letters:  V.T.  Before John was conscious of his body, he was already halfway back to the cottage.

 

Sherlock had stood there in the living room, dumbfounded at everything that had just happened, feeling as though when he walked down the stairs, he had entered into some nightmare.  He hadn't done anything wrong, this much he was sure of.  Well, he was guilty of not telling John about Victor, but how on earth was he supposed to bring that up?  _Well, John.  You see I am very attracted to you and want to tell you that I would like to be with you.  This has only happened to me once in the past and when I told Victor Trevor that I liked him, we ceased to be friends and stopped speaking to each other.  I would rather that not happen with you so if you do not share my feelings, pretend that I have not said anything so that we may go back to being flatmates._  


No, Sherlock had no idea how to bring up Victor, so he never did.  He instead chose to remain in John Watson's good graces and continue to have John in his life as his best friend.  There was no alternative.   


That had been John's first issue, but what were the others that had not been voiced aloud?  What was Sherlock missing? What had John been so upset about?  It was Victor.  That much was obvious.  But what about him?  John had seemed especially disheartened regarding his mother's caption beneath the picture.  Summer romance.  Was John jealous that there had been another friend before he entered into Sherlock's life?  That would be ridiculous.  _And so was getting jealous of John having friends in Afghanistan_ , he reminded himself.   


The back door flew open and Sherlock knew by the angry footsteps that John had returned and that the jealousy had not passed. 

"I want to go home," were the first words out of John's mouth and were the words that sent Sherlock's heart plummeting.  "I don't want to be here anymore.  I can't be.  Call the car.  You can stay if you want, but I want to go."  


Sherlock frowned and moved forward, his critical eye looking at everything of John's face and body and knew that something else had happened.  "What is it?" he asked.  "John, tell me."  


"You carved his fucking initials into the tree by the lake!" John shouted, his rage taking the reigns.  "Our getaway from other people and within the first half hour of being here, all I see are things about this other person who you kept secret from me!  And he's a permanent fixture of this place.  You _carved_ his initials, Sherlock.  Christ," he said, shaking his head.   


"I didn't carve his initials," Sherlock said.  "He must have carved them himself.  John, I never told you about him because I..." 

"You didn't carve them?"  


"No," Sherlock said, seizing the opportunity to try and quell the tidal wave that was John's temper before it flooded them beyond saving.  "And you need to calm down about this.  You're acting like me, and that's a way _no one_ should ever act."  


John fought a smile in spite of himself.  "Why didn't you tell me about him?"

"It is my past, John.  Victor has not been a part of my life since that summer and it is not one of which I hold fond memories, despite what those pictures portray."

  
John's tense muscles relaxed a little at that.  "I guess I am acting like you were my first day home.  Jealousy can be a dangerous thing."

"Is that what this is?  Jealousy?  Over what?"  


"Well," John said, choosing his words very carefully, in fear that he would slip and say something he did not want to just yet.  "I got jealous because this Victor person knew you when you were a teenager.  He knows a part of you that I don't.  Based on those pictures, you two were thick as thieves and I guess I'm jealous that I won't know that part of you.  Does that make sense?"  


Sherlock thought about John's words and nodded.  "Perfect sense," he said.  "Or, as much sense as something ridiculous and preposterous could make.  But I presume it's the same as when I got jealous over your friends in Afghanistan because they get to see you and spend time with you when I do not.  Like that?"  


"Yes," John said in relief.  "Exactly like that.  I don't know, Sherlock.  I saw the initials and I guess my jealousy got the better of me.  I don't want to be a stand-in for him or anything."  


"You are in no way a stand in for Victor," Sherlock said earnestly, moving forward.  "And I will prove it to you.  Come with me."  Sherlock moved into the kitchen and opened up one of the drawers and pulled something out before leaving out the backdoor, John following on his heels.   


"Which tree?" Sherlock asked as they walked down towards the lake. 

"Follow me.  But Sherlock what are you-"

"Trust me, John."

"Alright."

 

It was a few minutes later when John and Sherlock stood in front of the tree, admiring Sherlock's handiwork with the pocketknife he had taken with him from the drawer of the kitchen.   "What do you think?" he asked John.  "Acceptable?"  


John shrugged, though he couldn't stop the pleased smile from his face.  "I mean, it isn't perfect, but it'll do."

Sherlock had added another V to the one on the tree, turning it into a W.  A curve was added to the bottom of the T to transform it into a J.  Between the two new letters, a comma was carved.   


W,J.

"Watson, John," Sherlock said enthusiastically.  "I think it works.  And it keeps your jealousy at bay.  _Now_ can we continue on with our holiday form London?  I'll keep the pocketknife with me in case Victor left his mark anywhere else so I can fix it for you."  


"I like that plan," John said, feeling cheerful again as they made their way back up to the cottage.  "And if it does happen again, I'll try not to turn into you and let my jealousy ruin everything."  


"Very funny."

"It wasn't a joke."

"Hilarious."

"Still not joking."


	36. A Pocket Knife - Anne

John Watson liked watching Sherlock Holmes. He loved the way the boy’s eyes shone when something excited him, he loved the way Sherlock’s curls got unruly and long when he hadn’t had a haircut in a while like a reflection of his own wildness, and he loved it when Sherlock deduced things about people. After all, Sherlock Holmes was the smartest, hottest, most wonderful bloke John had ever met in his life. 

 

John wasn’t the only one who thought so. Victor Trevor befriended Sherlock almost as soon as he met him, Molly Hooper adored him in silence, and Gregory Lestrade fussed ceaselessly over the young man (although it was no secret that that was in part due to the influence of his demanding boyfriend, Mycroft). However, Sherlock supporters made up a pitifully small minority. Most people hated him, either because he was a posh, arrogant know-it-all, or because he had specifically torn them apart and exposed their flaws and the entirety of their past. Of course, most students just hated Sherlock because of his reputation, not because they had ever suffered from his insults or invasive intellectual reveals.

 

Things never got too bad for Sherlock, though. John would know if they did. Right? 

 

Lestrade wouldn’t catch sight of Sherlock buying cocaine off of a dealer and ignore it, would he? 

 

Molly wouldn’t see Sherlock skipping meals and consequently getting thinner and thinner and look away, would she? 

 

And what about Victor? He would do something if he knew that Sherlock had stopped sleeping, correct? And yet, he had to know. Was there another explanation for the inhuman paleness and the dark circles under his eyes?

 

Sometimes John noticed. He was proud of noticing, of remembering, even if he never directly addressed the cracks in Sherlock’s otherwise flawless performance. 

 

Most of the time, he forgot. 

 

Sherlock was always so animated, whether he was jumping off the walls as he gushed about different types of tobacco ash or tearing some poor bloke into a million tiny pieces and laying them bare for the world to see. He never _acted_ high, he never _seemed_ too thin, he never _looked_ tired. Sherlock was always fine. He was untouchable, immortal, above the petty weaknesses of mere humans. Hell, Sherlock’s body and mind probably weren’t even affected by the drugs. He probably didn’t even need sustenance or sleep. After all, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a man; he was either more or less depending on perspective, but he was _not_ a man. 

 

Which was why John was shocked and appalled to find Sherlock being held against the side wall of a pub near campus and beaten mercilessly by three people John recognized from their Chemistry lecture. His face was bloodied up, his hair was sticking to his neck with sweat, and (perhaps most disturbingly) he wasn’t even fighting. Sherlock was just taking the punches, letting heavy fists pummel his skeletal form without any protest. 

 

And John remembered. 

 

He remembered that Sherlock sometimes looked like he was going to pass out, he remembered the vacant look in Sherlock’s eyes, and the track marks on his arms, and the way his face looked when he thought no one was watching. He remembered all of his own forgetting as well, the way that he accepted Sherlock’s bullshit confidence without questioning and stared straight into the darkness and then ignored all that he saw there. Because that was clearly easier than accepting its existence. 

 

John pulled out his pocket knife with sudden overflowing rage, pouncing on the person who was punching Sherlock in the gut with a terrifying growl that bloomed from deep within his chest. The man jumped back, fear evident in his face and a stripe of blood beading on the back of his hand from when he lifted it to protect his face and met John’s knife. His buddies followed him, bolting out of the alley and disappearing into the night. 

 

John didn’t care; part of him thought he might have embarked on a killing spree if Sherlock’s assailants had stayed to challenge him.

 

Sherlock slid to the ground without the help of hateful hands holding him on his feet, and John responded by falling to his knees, tipping up Sherlock’s chin so he could examine the other boy’s face. There was a lot of blood, flowing freely down Sherlock’s chin and dirtying his shirt and his skin and John’s hands. The young genius was a ghost, a sliver of a shadow spread thin on the concrete and none of his weakness was covered up under a veneer of strength. John was positive that Sherlock was high, he was positive that Sherlock was severely underweight, he was positive that Sherlock hadn’t slept in a few days, and he was positive that those were tears springing forth from Sherlock’s empty eyes.

 

“Sherlock, are you okay?” 

 

“Yes.” The response was purposeful, practiced, and polished. John found himself wondering how often Sherlock lied. He wondered if anyone could ever tell.

 

“Alright, you’re coming home with me. Right now.” 

 

“Thank you for… taking out your knife, but I can find my own way home.” Sherlock’s tears had dried, and his face was gilded over once more with stony certainty. John couldn’t help but think about how easy it would be to forget. And he wanted to. He badly wanted to forget that Sherlock Holmes wasn’t indefatigable. He badly wanted to forget that Sherlock was mortal and that he was slowly dying and that no one was helping him. John had never thought about the inevitability of death, and now that he was, he wished he could turn away. He longed to forget. He needed to forget, but for some reason, he couldn’t. 

 

“No, you’re coming home with me. I'm going to get you something to eat, survey the damage, and then you’re going to get a good night’s sleep.”

 

“John…” 

 

“I’m serious!” John yelled, his body shaking with anger, guilt, and fear. “I’m going to keep you safe.” His hands were covered in Sherlock’s blood from anxiously searching for wounds by this point, and John was being plagued by intermittent shudders that were horrifying in their intensity. 

 

“Fine. I’ll come home with you,” Sherlock finally murmured in a quiet voice; in a tired, hurt, damaged voice. He was injured, but he wasn’t blind. Someone needed him.  _John_ needed him.

 

Sherlock rested an arm around John’s back, and John gathered the slim body to his chest thankfully, exalting in the sound of Sherlock’s heartbeat, which was still pounding away relentlessly. And then he decided to save Sherlock Holmes. The strange part was that Sherlock decided to save him too.


	37. Money for Booze - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for 13/7 is: Money for Booze!

“Money for booze,” John said.  
  
His friends laughed.  
  
“You're buying next time we go out,” one of his friends said.  
  
“Fuck yeah he is,” said another.

“Piss off. You can buy your own bloody drinks. Now leave me alone. I need to work,” John said. He indicated the line behind his friends. The people of London were all jonesing for coffee and it was John's job to serve it to them as quickly as possible. And if he could charm his way into tips at the same time, so much the better. He needed the money.

He worked hard that summer. He took extra shifts when he could. He blew off steam with his friends, buying cheap beer and drinking it down on warm summer nights when he had the time to spare. Most of the summer was spent behind the counter at work with an apron on, taking the same orders day in and day out. He started to resent the smell of coffee beans and the sound they made being crunched up in the electrical grinder played in his mind when he was trying to sleep. Those were the nights when he revised what he'd learned in his first year of university. He didn't want to forget what he'd learned and slip in his marks.

  
The tedium of taking orders, making coffee and handing out coffee was broken one day when only a couple weeks remained until the fall term started. John was busy trying to clean a nozzle in one of the machines when a deep voice sent a rush of excitement through his body.

“Is it just coffee here or do they serve tea as well? I've not had a proper cup of tea in weeks,” the voice said.  
  
“Sherlock!” John said, turning around and smiling brightly at the man who he'd shared a dorm with throughout the first year.  
  
“John. Hello,” Sherlock said. The edges of his lips turned up in a small smile. He couldn't resist John's enthusiasm. Nor his own.  
  
“You're back. It's good to see you. We have tea, but it's a bit pants. I'll make you some coffee. I promise you it won't be as bad as you think. Not as good as tea, I grant you, but it's something,” John said. He grinned happily up at Sherlock for a moment before he started to concoct the sweetest, sugar-laden drink he knew how to make.  
  
“Been enjoying yourself?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Oh, you know. It's a job,” John said.  
  
“You've hated it,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Well, I wouldn't say I've _hated_ it, “ John said.  
  
“You've hated it,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I've hated it a bit,” John said. He laughed. “Next year I'll find something more focused on medicine than feeding the collective caffeine addiction of everyone in London.”  
  
“Mm,” Sherlock said. His holiday had taken him out of London, out o f England, out of the UK, all the way to dozens of harbors along the coast of Italy. It had been on his mother's insistence, something about family tradition that needed to go on even though her children were grown and had flown from the nest. Sherlock had decided to give her one more summer of him hiding away in his cabin on the family yacht. The next summer he wanted to spend in London where John Watson lived and worked.  
  
“Any word from Mycroft?” John asked. Mycroft had a finger in a lot of pies, figuratively speaking (and possibly literally, judging by the size of him), including the pie that decided where and with whom John and Sherlock were going to be dorm mates the coming school year. Neither of them had any desire to live with anyone new. It had gone against everything Sherlock stood for to ask Mycroft for help, but it had turned out necessary.

“Ah. Yes. It's taken care of. You and me again,” Sherlock said. 

John received the news with the brightest smile he could muster.  
  
“Yes, it's good news,” Sherlock said. He rolled his eyes a little but smiled back at him.  
  
“Yeah. Here. Celebratory drink,” John said. The drink he handed Sherlock could barely be classified as coffee with all the syrups and milk and whipped cream it contained. And just as John thought, Sherlock loved it.  
  
For his remaining shifts, John had company in the form of his dorm mate in the corner of the café, bent over his laptop and occasionally ordering 'that thing you made me' when he needed a sugar rush to keep his energy up.

Having Sherlock there made time fly.  
  
John collected his last pay on a Monday afternoon and ran straight home to spend it on a website he'd been haunting the entire summer.  
  
The box containing what he'd ordered came four days later and John breathed a sigh of relief. He had been able to keep Sherlock from using his laptop and discovering his secret for that long but he knew it had only been a matter of time before Sherlock ruined the surprise for himself. It was so hard to surprise someone who saw through every one and every thing.  
  
“Oi, Sherlock,” John called from his room.  
  
“Mm?” Sherlock called back.

“Come out here. There's a package for you,” John said.  
  
Sherlock practically skipped out. “Must be the acids I ordered. I can't _believe_ they let them through customs,” he said.   
  
“What, hang on. Acids?” John said, but it was to deaf ears. Sherlock was already ripping the box open. John forgot his concern as he watched on. When Sherlock started to pick up the individually boxed items and looking at them in awe, John forgot to breathe.  
  
He suddenly realised that he shouldn't have done it. He had made everything so obvious.  
  
“Couldn't afford a microscope. Had to put money away for the school year,” John said. He felt like a tit. He had bought Sherlock the best slides that had been made for us in a microscope. And a new set of tweezers and scissors in different sizes. They had cost more than could possibly be reasonable. “Sorry I couldn't afford to buy you a Christmas present. Or a birthday present. I hope it makes up for it. Well, I better go. Walking is good exercise,” he said, starting to panic. Sherlock was staring at the items he had laid out on the kitchen table with a complete blank look on his face.  
  
“You took that job for me,” he said when John was half way to the door. “You told Mike and Robert and all your stupid friends you got it to buy _booze_. You _tricked_ them. You _tricked_ me. You wanted to buy me this. You _like me.”_  
  
John started to stammer. Not a proper word passed through his lips. Sherlock seemed to understand anyway. Finally.

 

John didn't care that much about booze.


	38. Money for Booze - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on these prompts. Go back and read the other entries for the full effect =D

__  
"You _implied_ that my jealousy has, on various occasions, ruined things," Sherlock said as they walked back into the cottage, continuing the argument they had been having.   
  
"You really don't see it," John marveled, looking at Sherlock.  "You don't remember every woman I had over the flat who you chased away because of your jealousy?"  
  
"Not jealous," Sherlock said coolly.  "I just think that your affections were wasted on women who did not deserve you.  I simply hinted towards why and the women left of their own choosing."  
  
"The _fuck_ you hinted.  Sherlock, you're a show off.  You don't hint towards things.  You stated exactly what was wrong with each one of them and then went into enough detail that they would rather leave than be subjected to _that_."  
  
"Well, you usually are impressed by my deductions, so-"  
  
"Oh, don't you try to turn this around and say that you did that all for me.  That your objective was to chase the women away and impress _me_ because you didn't think those women could."  
  
John waited for Sherlock to contradict him and for their banter to continue, but the lull that settled over their conversation made John feel uneasy.   
He shifted his balance from foot to foot as they stood in the kitchen, looking awkwardly at each other.  
  
"Right," John said, moving to the fridge and opening it up.  "I fancy something to eat _._   And something to drink. Our food supply looks pretty solid.  What about our choice of beverage?"  
  
"I think perhaps my mother knew that we would want something to drink," Sherlock said, picking up an envelope that was left on the counter.  "She didn't want to presume anything and didn't stock up on the alcohol.  Instead, she left this."  He held up the envelope, upon which was written _Money for Booze_.   "Again.  My mother, the comedienne.  There is a liquor store in town.  We can go whenever you-"  
  
"I want to. Let's go now."  Something about the way this weekend was progressing and the looming thought that he would be telling Sherlock exactly how he felt made John want to have a stiff drink in his hand.  That was always how it seemed to go since he first moved into Baker Street and was faced with hiding his feelings.  Drinking helped make everything easier to deal with by allowing John's mind to wander to where he didn't allow it to go.  This was a dangerous game to play in a cottage alone with Sherlock, but John saw no alternative.   
  
"Alright," Sherlock said, folding the envelope and putting it into his pocket.  "Let's go buy you booze."  
  
  
That night, after they had eaten dinner (Sherlock had surprised John by cooking a pasta dish that his mother used to make at the cottage), the two sat on  the living room floor leaning against the front of the couch, each with a drink.  Sherlock's third Jack and ginger was loosening his tongue as much as John's fourth rum and Coke was.   


"So what do you think?" Sherlock asked, gesturing around the room, his arms moving wider than they would have if he were sober.  "Of the cottage.  Is it good?  Is it to your liking?  Or would you have preferred to stay at our flat.  Our flat.  We live together in a flat."  A slightly drunken giggle escaped Sherlock's lips.  


"Yeah, I live with you," John said happily.  "And I love it at home. But I love it here.  This is nice, Sherlock.  Really."  John took another long sip of his drink and tried not to dwell on how close his body was to Sherlock's or how their arms were almost touching.   


Sherlock drained his glass and stood up, his balance a bit wobbly.  "Another?" he asked, holding out his hand to take John's glass when it too was finished.  Without a word John drank the rest of his rum and coke and handed it to Sherlock.   


"That dinner you made tonight was delicious, by the way," John called while he stayed sitting on the floor, feeling himself starting to slump down it.  "Now that I know you've been hiding that from me, you know I'm going to expect you to cook more often.  I wonder what other hidden talents you have that you've been keeping secret."

Sherlock was chuckling when he came back in and sank down clumsily on the floor again beside John.  This time, their bodies were even closer together.   He handed the rum and Coke to John, a drunken smile on his face.   


"Thank you," John said and they clinked their glasses together before drinking.  "Ooh, this is a strong one," John said, wincing a little.  Sherlock's must have been as well because the detective was blinking wildly and his eyebrows were raised in surprise.  John laughed and took another sip.  "So," he asked again.  "Are there any other hidden talents I don't know about?"  


"I don't think tho," Sherlock said, still laughing softly to himself."

John froze and looked at the detective.  "What?"

"I thaid that I didn't think tho," Sherlock repeated, looking at John as if he was crazy.  "What?  Did you not hear my thay it the firtht time?"  


"You..."  John was flabbergasted.  He had never seen Sherlock get this drunk before, drunk enough that the brilliant detective had a lisp.  It was astonishing and wildly sexy.  The alcohol in John's body began to cloud his mind as he began to envision himself kissing Sherlock's lisping tongue and having the tongue lick him, lick his cock...  John shook his head and cleared his throat awkwardly.  "Sherlock, can't you hear it?"  


"Hear what, John?"

"Say your full name."

"Therlock Holmeth."

"Jesus, John whispered, running a hand through his hair.  "Sherlock, you have a drunk lisp."  


"Prepothertouth.  I have nothing of the thort."

The wrong thing to do in that moment would be to laugh.  that was the very last thing John should do.  He knew that.  He could recognise that it would probably blow up in his face and that Sherlock would be offended.  The evening would end with Sherlock storming upstairs in a sulk and the magic that had been established would vanish.  But only if John laughed.  The desire to snigger was pushed aside with as much self control as he could muster and by some divine miracle, John managed to pass it into a cough.  His lips turned up into a smile though.  There was nothing he could do to fight that.  


"You really do though, Sherlock," John said happily, grinning broadly at Sherlock across from him.  "Go.  Say my name this time.  My full name.  Listen to the sounds you make.  Listen carefully."  


Sherlock bit into his lip and looked intently into John's eyes.

"John Watthon," he said slowly, precisely, feeling his tongue lag on his top teeth, producing the lisp on the 'S' in John's surname.  "Oh, there it wath.  I heard it that-"  


Sherlock stopped talking.  He had to. His observational skills were not so drastically dimmed from the alcohol that we could not see what had happened.  Sherlock had spoken John's name and watched as John's pupils dilated, blowing wide, his lips parting as his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock's eyes and lips.   


"Say it again," John whispered, his voice heavy with lust.  Never had his own name aroused him before. 

"John Watthon."

"Again."

"John Watthon."

"Jesus, Sherlock.  That sounds..."

"You like it."

"Of course I like it."

"No, John.  You _like_ it."  


"Yes," John said, gazing intently at Sherlock, needing him to understand without him having to say the words.  "Yes I like it."

"You think it thoundth...thexthy?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.   


"Very thexthy," John said, unable to stop himself from saying the word with the lisp.  It was infectious.

This time, it was Sherlock who fought the urge to laugh.  The only difference was that he failed.  He slid against the couch, giggling to himself.  "You thound ridiculouth!" he said between breaths.  "Ith that what I thound like?  I can never drink again.  No one will take me theriouthly."  


John began to laugh in tandem with Sherlock, his back sliding down the couch as well, the sides of their bodies colliding gently.  "Christ, I'm going to be hungover tomorrow if we carry on like this."  


Sherlock groaned and drunkenly rested his head on John's shoulder.  His eyes closed as he readjusted his body to be more comfortable.  "I don't  want to walk all the way upthtairth to go to bed.  Can I jutht thtay here?"  


"Yeth, Sherlock," John said with a smirk, his eyes closing peacefully as the alcohol started to lull him to sleep. 

"Watch yourthelf, Watthon," Sherlock said sleepily.  He yawned loudly and moved in closer to John.   "No.  Watthon thoundth too formal.  Not formal with you. You are John.  My John," he added before he fell asleep.  


"Your John," John agreed before he rested his head on top of Sherlock's and allowed his body to succumb to sleep as well. 


	39. Money for Booze - Anne

 

“It’s for the booze,” Sherlock insisted, clearly quite intoxicated as he handed John 1000 quid with a huge, drunken smile gracing his generally sombre countenance. 

 

“I’m not taking that.” 

 

“ _For the booze_. That I consumed. That you bought for us to consume.” John’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. Sherlock ignored the simultaneously disapproving and incredulous look, pushing the cash in John’s general direction with even greater insistence. 

 

“Sherlock, how much do you think that fifth cost, hm?” 

 

“Not sure.” 

 

“You would owe me 10 quid. If I was even asking you to pay me back. Which I’m not.” 

 

“Mm, come on, Johnny. I know you need it.” Sherlock tugged John into his chest, pressing a sloppy kiss into his hair. “And I love you. Need to make sure you’re safe. You need money for food and books and booze and things.” 

 

“Sherlock, you should go to bed.” 

 

“John, you should take my money. This isn’t enough? I have more. I’ll give you more.” The young genius reached for his wallet, realizing that he would have to take out more money from the bank, if he was really going to hand it all to his best friend.

 

“I don’t want your money.”

 

“Why not? I have a lot of it.” Sherlock prepared for an attack as an ugly scowl formed on the other bloke’s face. He had done something wrong; he didn’t know what, exactly, but he knew he had done something wrong. 

 

“Because I just fucking don’t!” John shot up from the sofa at that, clutching the arm of it when he realized how wobbly he was. Hm, maybe he shouldn’t have had those last few drinks… Sherlock pulled his best friend back down by the hem of his sweater, shoving him onto the cushions with a concerned look on his face. 

 

“Lie down. You’re drunk.” 

 

“Course I’m drunk. You said you wanted to get drunk and I bought us a fifth of vodka. Why wouldn’t I be drunk?” he explained in an ornery fashion, still bristling from Sherlock’s offer. He didn’t move though. It felt too nice having Sherlock’s reassuring weight resting on his chest. 

 

“Mm, thank you for that, by the way.” 

 

“Yeah, you’re welcome. What prompted this anyway?”

 

“Victor and I are no longer friends.” John paused and cleared his throat, looking over at Sherlock skeptically. 

 

“What? Why not? I thought he was going to be your roommate next year.” 

 

“He was. When we were shagging. However, that… interaction has been terminated.” 

 

“Ah, a break up. Cheers. You should have another drink.”

 

“No, I really shouldn’t.” Sherlock giggled at the very thought, warming John’s chest with his breath. “You should take my money,” he added in a serious voice a moment later, resting his cheek to the side.

 

“Mm, your offer is very generous, Sherlock, but you know I can’t do that.” 

 

“Yes, you can… I love you so much.” At least that was what he meant to say; he wasn’t entirely sure how much John could understand given the fact that he had said it during a long yawn. 

 

“What was that?” 

 

“I love you,” Sherlock repeated shamelessly, watching John’s clearly positive reaction with glee. 

 

“That’s what I thought you said. You’re getting very sweet, Sher.” 

 

“Drunk. Can’t help it.” Sherlock snuggled closer to John, scooting forward to fit his head in the crook of John’s neck.

 

“So why did Victor break up with you?” John finally asked him, fixing an arm around Sherlock’s slim frame.

 

“You honestly think that’s what happened? 

 

“Given the way you’re drinking yourself into a warm puddle, yeah.” 

 

“I ended things.”

 

“Why? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” John voice was rough and angry; he was already getting protective just considering that someone might have injured his friend. 

 

“No. God, no. Is there some reason in particular we’re talking about this?” 

 

“Because people talk about this sort of thing. After a break up."

 

“Well, I’m not people. And I’m fine. Really.” John would have been willing to bet a hundred quid that although Sherlock was pretty bad, Victor was even worse. Luckily, Victor wasn’t his problem.

 

“Course you’re fine. You’re with me.” 

 

“Mmhm… Much better with you.” 

 

“Good,” John replied proudly, taking the opportunity to twist a curl around his finger and run his hands through Sherlock’s hair. He didn’t get the chance as often as he liked. “Because I kind of like having you around. You’re pretty sweet. Clearly a proficient cuddler, yeah? You’re my baby.” 

 

Sherlock huffed at that, half-heartedly protecting his reputation, when in reality they both knew that Sherlock had no problem with all the extra attention.  _Baby_ was a little unusual, but not new territory between them. 

 

“Where’s Sarah, hm?” 

 

“You come first. You know that.” Sherlock grinned even wider at that, leaning forward and catching John’s lips with his own. John sighed deeply, intensely content, but even more concerned. Not normal Sherlock behavior. “Christ… You must be really upset.” 

 

“I’m not upset,” Sherlock corrected before he kissed John again, pressing down into the body beneath him.

 

“You’re being pretty demanding, Sherlock. Believe it or not, it’s not my job to fuck you.” Anger. Frustration. Sherlock was using him for a rebound fling after breaking up with his boyfriend. After knowing how much John cared for him, Sherlock could still do that without feeling remorse. It was disgusting. 

 

“Fine, don’t fuck me. You can get out of my fucking flat, you arse. And take this.” Sherlock threw the envelope of money at John once more. Love was best when it was two-sided, but even in unfortunate situations where it wasn’t, Sherlock believed that something good could materialize out of all of those hateful, wild emotions. He could take care of John; that was all he needed. 

 

Auspiciously, Sherlock got to think this as John set the money aside and kissed him back, making a resolution to protect him in much the same way.


	40. Bastille Day - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is: Bastille Day!

* * *

“Put it on,” Sherlock said, shoving the old, slightly rusted helmet into John's hands as soon as he came up the path to Sherlock's house.  
  
“What is it?” John asked. 

Sherlock huffed impatiently and stomped one of his feet. “It'th an _Adrian helmet,_ ” he said.  
  
“What's that?” John asked. It always made him mad when Sherlock acted like he should know something when he didn't.  
  
“A helmet that wath uthed in the firtht world war. Put it on,” Sherlock said.  
  
“It's too big,” John said, turning it over in his hands. It was heavier than he'd thought it would be and he didn't fancy putting that weight on his head.  
  
“Jutht put it on, John!” Sherlock protested, taking it back from John and pushing it roughly onto his head.  
  
“Ow!” John said. The helmet tipped on his small head and he grabbed it to make it stay on.  
  
“Now we have to go march,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Why?” John asked.   
  
“It's _Bathtille Day_ , John. It'th tradithon to march on Bathille Day,” Sherlock said. Despite his young age of eight, he had already perfected rolling his eyes.  
  
“But you're _English_. Bastille Day is for French people,” John said.  
  
“My grandfather wath Frenth. He fought in the firtht world war. Why do you think he got a hat like that?” Sherlock said. He didn't have patience for this. He wanted John to march.   
  
“Oh. Then how come you're English?” John asked. He tried to balance the helmet on his head but it kept tipping to one side.   
  
“Becauthe after the war he moved here and met grandmother and became Englith,” Sherlock said. He was tired of waiting for John to agree to march, so he simply walked away and knew (more than hoped) that John would follow. It always worried him that John wouldn't follow one day. All his other friends had one day stopped following.  
  
John stood still for a few minutes, wrestling with the dual urges of running after Sherlock and going home to sulk. Running after Sherlock won out. He had to hold the helmet tight to his head so it wouldn't fall off. 

“Walk fathter, John. We can't keep the crowdth waiting,” Sherlock said. He waved his hands around to illustrate that he was stressed and they had a schedule to keep, like he had seen his mother do a lot.  
  
“There's a crowd?” John asked, straightening the helmet.

“Yeth, John. And we're keeping them waiting becauthe you are being tho _thlow.”  
  
_ John hurried up and started to feel a little nervous. He hadn't prepared for this. Why had Sherlock sprung this on him at the very last minute?  
  
They rounded the corner to Sherlock's back garden and they were met by two lines of teddy bears and toy soldiers making an aisle for John to march down. At the end of the aisle was a chair.   
  
“That'th the guetht of honor, John. You have to thalute him. He'th the general,” Sherlock said, pointing at his dad who had just sat himself down with a cup of tea.   
  
“General of what?” John asked. He was very nervous now.  
  
“General of _everything_ ,” Sherlock said.  
  
“You can't be general of _everything_ ,” John said.  
  
“You can too! He ith. That'th how I know,” Sherlock said. Before John could protest again, he ran halfway down the aisle. “Ladieth and gentlemen. Honored guethtth. We are gathered here today to thelebrate Bathtille Day and to thee John Watthon march.” He turned to John and waved him forward. “Come on, John. It'th time.”  
  
John marched backwards and forwards in the aisle for the better part of an hour. Sherlock gave him directions and acted as a commentator, and Sherlock's father was delighted with each change and improvement they made in the program. He clapped and cheered and when they finally were pleased with the amount of marching, they went inside and he gave them all croissants. He even found a red, white and blue blanket to tuck them in with when they fell asleep on the sofa.


	41. Bastille Day - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts, so I suggest reading the other entries first if you haven't.

John stirred first, the early morning light waking him from his slumber far too early, but that was the curse of waking with the sun each morning in Afghanistan.  There was a dull ache in his head, a soft pounding that was not painful as much as it was annoying.  Slowly, the memories from the night before seeped back into his mind as he felt the weight of Sherlock's body, still leaning against him.  A small smile crept across John's face, savouring the moment with the usually loud detective silent and peaceful, asleep on his shoulder.  
  
Drooling on his shoulder.  
  
"Eugh," John whispered to himself as he felt the moisture saturating through his shirt and dampening the skin beneath the fabric.  "Disgusting," he whispered again, though he did not mean it.  John loved that Sherlock was so deeply asleep on his shoulder that his jaw was slackened and he as drooling. It warmed John and made him not want to disturb the moment by moving.   
  
His headache, however, had a different agenda.  The bothersome pain began to increase until John had squeezed his eyes shut tight again, trying to ward off the incessant pounding.  Unfortunately, he had no painkillers sitting on that living room floor and if he didn't take care of it then and there, he would be suffering for the rest of the day.  With a reluctant heart, John gently lifted Sherlock head and body, easing him against the back of the couch.  It was a mark of how sleep deprived Sherlock must have been or how easily the alcohol affected him but he barely moved at all as his mouth hung open again and his sleep continued.  
  
John pushed himself to his feet, his balance thrown off momentarily as he scrunched up his face in discomfort.  He made his way to the bathroom, finding paracetamol in the cupboard above the sink.  After quickly downing two with a handful of water from the sink, John moved back into the living room silently, not wanting to rouse Sherlock.  Deciding to take up in a quiet and solitaire activity, John pulled another photo album from the shelf (after making sure it was one that would feature a Sherlock in boyhood and not one who was pining after someone).   
  
Flipping through the pictures, John smiled at ones of Sherlock dressed in full pirate attire, Mycroft clearly forced to dress up to humour both his parents and brother.  There was another of Sherlock studying a bee who was collecting pollen on a flower.  One of Sherlock, sopping wet hair, building a sandcastle on a beach.  And one that made John yell out in excitement and pure glee.   
  
Sherlock was no older than seven or eight years old, dressed in a homemade red vest with a gold belt hanging from his shoulder, draped diagonally across his chest.  One hand was clutching a very large tree branch above his head and Sherlock mouth was open, making it look like he was yelling.  But upon closer examination, John could tell that Sherlock had been _singing_.  This was the realisation that made him shout loudly and laugh, waking Sherlock up immediately. .  
  
The detective's head swiveled bac and forht, the sudden light and noises giving him sensory overload.  Hadn't he been sitting on the floor with John the night before?  Hadn't he...  Sherlock swallowed loudly.  He had fallen asleep on John's shoulder.  But John was... Sherlock's eyes raised up, looking towards where the laughing was coming from and saw John doubled over in laughter.  Stretching his arms, Sherlock stood up.   
  
"What can possibly be so funny that it was worth waking me?" he asked grumpily, moving towards John.   
  
Tears had started to form in the army doctor's eyes from the force of the laughter erupting from deep inside of him.  John turned the book around and displayed the picture.  Sherlock's face turned a deep red.  "We don't need to look at this," he said, attempting to close the book, but John was faster.  His hand slipped between the pages and pushed the photo album open once more.  
  
"Not until you explain this to me," John said.  "Exactly _what_ are you wearing in this picture and tell me that you aren't _singing_ in it."  
  
Sherlock shifted his weight back and forth and took a deep breath.  "It was Bastille Day."  A few beats of silence passed where John looked at Sherlock politely, his eyebrows raised, waiting patiently for Sherlock to continue.  "It was my favourite holiday."  John's face did not change except for a giddy smile making his lips quiver slightly.  Sherlock seemed to realise that John was not going to let it drop and so, with a resigned sigh, he quickly explained everything.  
  
"I have French ancestors on my mother's side and so we have always had an affinity for French history and culture.  When I was younger, my parents introduced Mycroft and me to Les Miserables, and I took an immediate interest in the historic aspects of it, primarily the French Revolution.  What you see here in the picture is me wearing the Enjolras costume my mother fashioned for me one summer when we were here at the house for Bastille Day."  
  
"And what are you singing?" John asked with a boyish mischievous grin.   
  
Sherlock looked disgruntled, but muttered, "Do You Hear the People Sing."  
  
John let out a whooping laugh as he stared at the picture.  "Sherlock, this is incredible.  Hand me my phone, would you?  I need to take a picture of this so I can make a copy and bring it back to Afghanistan with me.  I don't ever want there to be a day that goes by where I don't get to see this picture."  
  
"Alright, that's enough," Sherlock said as he pulled the photo album away, swiftly closing the book and putting it back on the shelf.  "Let us get on with our day.  I was thinking perhaps we could-"  
  
"Hang on," John said slowly, his eyes lighting up.  "Sherlock...what's today's date?"  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened in fear.  "It doesn't matter.  It can't be...but still, it doesn't matter."  
  
"Oh, it matters," John said, standing up from the chair he was sitting in.  "It matters very much.  Sherlock Holmes, I do believe it's Bastille Day!"  
  
"No," Sherlock said, aghast.  "It can't be.  It's impossible."  He was positive that Bastille had happened just before John had come home.  
  
"Let's celebrate!" John shouted.  "Liberté!  Égalité!  Fraternité!  Bleu, blac rouge! Bleu, blanc, rouge!  Vive la France!"  He laughed wildly as he moved to the stereo and searched for the CD that he knew would bring him endless pleasure and most likely drive Sherlock into a full-day sulk.  He popped it into the CD player and skipped ahead until he heard the opening notes of "Do You Hear the People Sing" and moved forward to Sherlock.  "Come on!" he shouted excitedly.  "Where's your French pride, Sherlock?  Sing!"  
  
"I will do _nothing_ of the sort!" Sherlock shouted back.  He stood motionless, his arms folded tightly, looking at John in horror.  "John, you are acting ridiculous.   
  
But John was now singing aloud, and for the lyrics he did not know (which were many), he simply made up the words, which only infuriated Sherlock even more.   
  
When the song had finally ended, Sherlock moved to the stereo and unplugged it from the wall, staring at the machine as if nothing in the world had ever offended him more.  "It's July 20th, he said angrily.  "You missed Bastille Day.  It's over."  
  
"I think we just celebrated it," John said, cheerfully.  "Now, what were the plans you wanted to do today?  Do they involve dressing up in more costumes and singing more song from Les Mis?"   
  
John's comment was reward with Sherlock storming out of the living room, up the stairs, and slamming his bedroom door.  John, still chuckling to himself, continued to hum the song as he started to clean up the living room and the kitchen from the night before.  Sherlock would come around, and when he did, John decided he would only _occasionally_ reference Bastille Day, enough to remind Sherlock that he was not going to forget that morning, but not too much so that Sherlock spent the entire day hating him. 


	42. Bastille Day - Anne

 

“What are we doing for Bastille Day?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Bastille Day.”

 

“Sherlock, why would we celebrate Bastille Day? We’re not even French.” 

 

“I’m French. A bit. And because I can think of at least a few suitable ways to spend the day.”

 

John smiled at that, already picturing a long day in bed with Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock was bloody good in bed. If he wanted a whole day of celebrating, then John would give him a full day of celebrating. 

 

“Ah, a few suitable ways? Planning to throw a revolution, Sherlock?” Sherlock grinned boyishly, and for a moment John actually thought that Sherlock’s plans would involve test tubes and acid.

 

“Something like that.” Ah, no. Not test tubes then. Sherlock’s voice was suddenly much too naughty for that. 

 

“Mm, and what does your revolution entail?”

 

“Telling everyone that we’re engaged,” Sherlock replied in a clipped voice without a moment of hesitation. 

 

“But we’re not engaged,” John muttered uneasily, mussing up his hair. “Besides, no one even knows we’re together.” 

 

“Not to worry; I’m preparing a simple flowchart to efficiently answer all inane questions.”

 

“Sherlock Holmes is doing paperwork?” 

 

“This is important. Has to be done well. Want to see my preliminary document?” John nodded, leaning over to look at Sherlock’s computer screen and scanning the contents of the open word document. 

 

Some of the information was indeed pertinent. 

 

  
_How long have you been involved?_ , for example, led to a series of short explanations marking out the most important and obvious checkpoints in their relationship, reached by looking under the time period inquired about. 

 

Other lines on the flowchart led to uncomfortable places (like the ones specifying the types of intimacy that they participated in and the frequency with which they partook in such activities). 

 

And yet a third category included information that John knew that no one had any interest in. He wasn’t going to tell Sherlock that, though. Of course, if one of their acquaintances inquired about their individual genetic makeup or any and all illnesses they had been afflicted with within the last four years, John now had the necessary information at his disposal to do so. 

 

“Very thorough, Sherlock.” 

 

“Glad you think so. I will have print-outs prepared to distribute throughout the day.” 

 

“Don’t bother.” 

 

“What? Why not?” 

 

“Because we’re not engaged.” Sherlock’s face immediately dropped, his expression growing exceedingly dismal by the second. 

 

“Why aren’t we engaged? I just… said we were.” 

 

“Yeah, I know you did, Sher. I heard you. But you didn’t ask me.” 

 

“Oh. I see.” 

 

“Yes. So if you want to commence with celebrating Bastille Day in the way that you’ve been planning, you have to ask me to marry you and I have to say yes.” 

 

“Right.” Sherlock eyed up John with suspicion, trying to gauge his boyfriend’s probable answer and coming up with nothing. He would actually have to ask then. Straight forward. All he needed was a yes or no answer. 

 

“What would you say if I asked you to marry me?” 

 

“I’m not going to answer that, Sherlock.” 

 

“You know… I would say yes if  _you_ asked.” 

 

“Not going to happen. If you want to pass out fliers to all of our acquaintances with all of my personal information on them, including my blood type and my family history for the past four generations, then you’re going to have to ask me to marry you.” 

 

“But I can’t. I don’t know what you’ll say.” John laughed at that, still meeting Sherlock’s eyes fearlessly. 

 

“Then don’t ask me.” 

 

Sherlock groaned, deciding immediately that knowing was better than not knowing. 

 

“Okay, fine,” he grumbled, pressing a hand to his face and clearing his throat to buy himself time. He averted his eyes from John, mustering up the requisite courage, and then Sherlock Holmes asked John something that he had wanted to for quite some time. “John Watson, will you marry me?” Sherlock’s voice was no louder than a whisper, barely audible.

 

“What was that?” 

 

“John Watson, will you marry me?” he repeated in a much louder voice this time, a sincere desperate voice. 

 

“Yes. Of course I’ll bloody marry you. Happy Bastille Day.” Sherlock gave John a sweet kiss, closing his laptop and lugging his boyfriend to the bedroom. Yes, he certainly had plans for Bastille Day. 


	43. A day at the beach - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is: A day at the beach!

“No, mother. I am _reading,”_ Mycroft said, pulling his legs tighter to himself as if the parasol he was sitting under was not shielding his pale skin from the sun as it was.   
  
“You'll ruin your eyes with your constant reading. Come play with your brother in the sand. We're making a castle,” Mrs. Holmes said.   
  
“Being exposed to the sun would ruin my eyes quicker than reading and I am furthering my intellectual capacities, something Sherlock should seek to do if he wants to get anywhere in life,” Mycroft said.  
  
Sherlock frowned and kicked his foot into the sand. Maybe he shouldn't play. Mycroft was so much more clever than him and he probably knew best. What a silly little boy he was to want to play when there were things to be learned. He sniffed.  
  
“Don't be so mean, Mikey. See what you've done now. You've upset poor Lockie,” Mrs. Holmes said. She knelt in the sand and tried to put her arms around Sherlock but he squirmed away, angrily wiping his face dry.   
  
“I don't need hugth. Hugth are thtupid,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” Mrs. Holmes said. Her boys brought her to the edge of reason so often that she often wondered if she was a bad mother.   
  
Sherlock could hear the hurt in his mother's voice and felt so guilty that he got even angrier. He ran down to the shore and kicked the water.   
  
“Don't go too far, Lockie!” Mrs. Holmes called after him.  
  
One day, he decided, he was going to so far that nobody would be able to find him unless he wanted them to. He would be his own boss.  
  
“Wutcha doing?” another voice asked him. It was a voice Sherlock had never heard and it didn't immediately annoy him.  
  
“None of your buithneth,” Sherlock said. He scowled.  
  
“It's better if you don't kick the water and instead when the waves come you jump to avoid them so you don't get wet,” the boy said. He demonstrated on the next wave that came in.  
  
“Why?” Sherlock asked. He couldn't deny his interest.

“It's a game. Pretend the water is lava and if it touches your knees, you're _dead_ ,” the boy said. He jumped again and Sherlock's legs bent ever so slightly, as if he was going to jump.  
  
On the next wave, they both jumped.   
  
“That was a really big one!” the boy said.  
  
Sherlock didn't reply, but concentrated very hard on jumping and called out in frustration and fear when he jumped too soon and landed right in a wave. The water splashed up on his face and he brought his hands up and wiped frantically until he realised it wasn't _really_ lava. It was just water that they were _pretending_ was lava. Sherlock looked guiltily at Mycroft to check that he was still reading and wasn't making fun of him for playing and losing himself in imagination.  
  
“Oh, you're dead now,” the boy said.  
  
“No, I'm not!” Sherlock said.  
  
“Want to play something else?” the boy asked.   
  
“Yeth,” Sherlock said. He liked this boy.  
  
“Let's make roads in the sand. I have trucks,” the boy said. He ran off before Sherlock could agree and came back with a bucket that held a spade and a few well-used little trucks.   
  
The boy fell to his knees and poured the contents of the bucket out on the sand. He took the spade and started to dig. “You can have the blue truck. It's the best one. I like blue,” the boy said.  
  
Sherlock was frozen in place. He didn't know what to do. Why was this boy talking to him like they knew each other? Why did he want to play with Sherlock? Nobody liked Sherlock.   
  
He stood so still for so long that the other boy stopped digging and looked up at him. “Don't you want to play?” he asked. Sherlock heard hurt in the boy's voice, just like he had in his mother's. This time he wouldn't run away.   
  
“I do,” he said. He dropped down to his knees and took the blue truck. “I like thith truck. You thouldn't uthe it in the thand. Thand will get in the wheelth and ruin it,” he said.  
  
The boy stopped digging and looked at Sherlock and then the truck. “But it's a sand truck. It's supposed to be in the sand. It takes sand from Africa to England to make beaches,” he said.  
  
“It doeth?” Sherlock asked, wide-eyed. He hadn't known. Why was there so much he didn't know?

“Yeah! That's why we have to build the road,” the boy said.   
  
Sherlock was filled with a great motivation to help build the road and started to dig with his hands. It turned out he was really very good at building roads in the sand and with the help of his new friend(?). Together they built a road in a figure eight and with some engineering and one tantrum, they built an archway for the trucks to pass under. The other boy decided that would be the border between Africa and England and asked Sherlock very intricate questions each time his blue truck passed through it. Sherlock liked being asked questions and he answered them with more and more silly answers until they were both flopped over in the sand and laughing loudly.   
  
“Darling, come have something to drink,” Mrs. Holmes called out a while later. She had been bursting with curiosity for the two hours she had watched her son play happily with another boy. She had never seen that happen before. “Bring your friend. We have plenty of juice boxes,” she called when she saw the lines of a frown start to appear on Sherlock's face.  
  
“Do you want a juithe boxth?” Sherlock asked. He stared in his intense way at the boy. He wanted so badly for him to say yes.  
  
“Yeah! Do you have orange?” the boy said, getting to his feet and running with Sherlock to get juice boxes.  
  
“Mummy! Do we have orange juithe boxtheth?” Sherlock asked. It felt like the world would end if they didn't. The other boy would leave and they wouldn't play together anymore and Sherlock wanted to keep playing.   
  
“Yes, we do, Sherlock,” she said. Her son was so _eager_. “Hello, what's your name?” she asked the boy who was shyly standing a step behind Sherlock.  
  
“John,” he said, looking at his toes.   
  
_John_ , Sherlock repeated in his head. He hadn't even thought to ask.

  
“I'm Mrs. Holmes. This is Mycroft, but you can call him Mikey,” she said.  
  
“No, you most certainly cannot call me Mikey. My name is Mycroft, John. You better remember that,” Mycroft said.   
  
“Shut up, Fatcroft!” Sherlock said angrily. He wasn't going to have _John_ bullied away by his stupid big brother.   
  
“Boys, that's enough. Here's your juice, John. Have some biscuits, too,” Mrs. Holmes said, kindly smiling at John and handing him both juice and biscuits.  
  
“Thanks,” he said. He sat down and started to drink.   
  
“Pear for you, Sherlock. Please have some biscuits,” she said. It never did much good to plead with her son to eat. He ate when he wanted to and never very much. That's why it surprised her when Sherlock ate the two biscuits she had given him and asked for more.   
  
“Is your name really Sherlock?” John asked. He had never heard that name or any name like it.  
  
“Yeth,” Sherlock said. He was always so odd to other children. He scowled. John was going to tease him for it just like every other child had.  
  
“Oh. Do you think we should build another arch? Maybe America needs to have sand from Africa too,” John said.  
  
Sherlock was stunned silent for a full three seconds before he started to talk animatedly about how they would need to make _two_ arches because they could start trading with Russia too. He knew that Russia didn't have many beaches because it was cold so they needed to build some with warm sand from Africa.  
  
Mrs. Holmes stayed far longer at the beach than she had intended to that day. Mycroft knew better than to protest; although he could be hard on Sherlock he understood the basic human need of companionship and John seemed very suitable.   
  
When John's mother came looking for him to tell him it was time to go home, Mrs. Holmes very swiftly exchanged numbers and set up a playdate for the following weekend. She made sure that it was at the Holmes' residence because it struck her that nobody had been to look for John for hours and the boy was a little on the thin side. If the boy was suffering from neglect at home, she wanted to positively smother him with affection, food and attention if she could. It was a two hour drive from the Holmes' to the Watson's, but Mrs. Holmes promised to send her driver so it would be of no expense for the other family. It concerned her how easily John's mother promised to send him off to a stranger's house.   
  


The concern took a strong hold when John flung his arms around Sherlock's neck and hugged him before he left and Sherlock _hugged him back_. She would make sure these boys saw each other as often as they wanted.

  
As it turned out, John spent more time at Sherlock's house than his own that summer and they built an inseparable friendship that lasted the rest of their childhood and a relationship that lasted the rest of their lives.


	44. A day at the beach - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on the prompts. Check the others out if you haven't!

__  
"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John called after giving the entire first floor a good once over cleaning job.  "It was just a bit of fun.  Don't keep yourself locked in your room and sulking all day! Let's go out and enjoy this weather!"  He moved up the stairs, realising that he had not ventured into this part of the house before.  "Sherlock?" he asked, unsure of which closed door he should bombard with knocking and flattery.  


"No," a voice came from a little bit down the hall behind a door.  John grinned to himself and moved towards it. 

"Sherlock," he said in a coaxing tone as he gently rapped on the door. "Come on out.  Don't waste an entire day locked away in here.  Let's do something.  Get out of here.  Go to the beach, build a sandcastle...like in one of the pictures I saw in the photo album."  


That did the trick.  John could hear angry footsteps approach the door which was thrown open and he was left looking into the face of a very, very disgruntled and bothered Sherlock Holmes.  "We are never mentioning that photo album again.  Is that understood?" he fumed.  


John looked up at Sherlock defiantly.  "No," he said simply.  "But stop your sulking.  We have a day to go enjoy.  I want to enjoy the English air while I can.  It'll be nice to be outside in a heat that isn't too oppressive.  Come on, let's go to the beach."   


Sherlock arched an eyebrow.  The last thing he wanted to do was spend a portion of the day outdoors on sand (and he could not fathom why John, who spent so much time around sand in Afghanistan would want to be near sand now), but he looked at John's face and knew he could not deny his friend a single thing.  "Fine," Sherlock said.  "Did you bring a swimsuit with you?"  


"I..." John frowned.  "No, I didn't.  I don't have a bathing suit and Mycroft didn't buy me one.  I didn't even think to-"

"No matter," Sherlock said and walked down the hall, opening a closet.  "My father's idea.  Keep spare clothing here just in case necessities are ever forgotten. We have swimsuits.  Here."  Sherlock tossed a pair of navy blue swim trunks to John and pulled out a pair of black ones for himself.  "It's a bit of a walk to the beach.  And it's not so much a beach as it is a rather sandy portion of the lake shore."  


"Fine," John said hurriedly.  "Whatever it is, fine.  Let's just go, yeah?"  He was smiling widely as he jogged back down the hall and down the stairs and into his room to change.  Sherlock stayed in the hallway for just a minute, sorting through all of the possible ways this day and trip to the beach could end for them.

 

"Can we be done now?" Sherlock asked two hours later as he sat up on a beach towel, scowling deeply at the water.  "Can we go back to the house?"

"Sherlock, would you please lie down?" John asked, lying down beside him.  "You are blocking my sun."  


Sherlock made a show of huffing out air and pretending to be frustrated and unhappy with John's request, but his stomach was doing flips at the prospect of his body lying on the sand next to John's.  He gently eased his body down, his back resting against the blanket on the sand.   


"There," John said.  "Isn't that better?  Being able to relax instead of holding all of your muscles tightly by sitting?"

"It's fine," Sherlock replied, not wanting to admit that this was far preferable to sitting up.  "Are you enjoying your time, then?"  


"At the beach?  Yeah, of course.  Now that I have sun on my skin instead of someone as tall as a bloody mountain keeping me in the shadows."  John chuckled at his own joke, his eyes closing behind his sunglasses.  


"No," Sherlock said, his tone serious and contrasting greatly against the light playfulness of John's easy laughter.  "I was referring to your time back in England.  I know I am not the easiest person to get along with, but I have been trying.  I don't want you to go back to Afghanistan and decide that I am the most unsociable man you've ever met."  


"You _are_ the most unsociable man I've ever met, John corrected with a smirk.

"But too unsociable for you to live with," Sherlock admitted.  "I _have_ been trying," he repeated, wanting to stress the point.   


"Yeah, Sherlock, I know," John said lightly.  "I appreciate it.  Don't worry.  I've made it this far living with you.  I've built up a tolerance for your personality.  I wouldn't move out and let all of that experience go to waste."  


"But-"

"Sherlock, I promise," John said, and he let his hand fall gently to his side instinctively.  It landed gently on Sherlock's and John let it linger for a few seconds before he patted it awkwardly and went to lift it up.

Sherlock's heart was hammering in his chest a mile a minute at the feel of John's hand on his own, and the pace only quickened when he felt John start to pull his hand away.  Without thinking, Sherlock flipped over his palm and took hold of John's hand, pulling it back down to the blanket.  


John turned his head quickly and looked at Sherlock questioningly.  With his free hand, he took his sunglasses off quickly, wanting to see Sherlock's face.  Slowly, Sherlock turned his head so that he was looking back at John, wondering if John could hear his heart beating thunderously in his chest.  It was deafening to him.  


"I'm going back to Afghanistan, but I'm not going to go anywhere," John whispered.  His entire body was alive, that feeling coursing through his veins again.  The adrenaline making him want to act, to jump, to fling himself into the unknown and hope for the best, that there would be a safety net there to catch him.  "Sherlock, I need to tell you something."  


Sherlock's body froze as he waited for John's words to continue, but for some reason, his body was acting independently of his brain.  He could feel it moving towards John's body and some part of him noticed that John's was doing the same.  It noticed that John's pupils were dilating again.  It even noticed that John's eyes were darting back and forth between his eyes and his lips.  John's lips were moving closer.  


And then, somehow both quite suddenly and slowly, John's lips were softly pressed against Sherlock's.  It was brief, lasting only a second, before both of them pulled back and looked at each other, but it was enough.   


"John, I-"

"Sherlock, I-"

They had spoken simultaneously, their words perfectly in tandem.  It was everything they needed to break the tension as John and Sherlock started to laugh together, all of their nervous energy seeping out of each other.  What they had just done was alright with the other person.  John wasn't going to leave Sherlock and Sherlock was not rejecting John.   


"Well," John said slowly, the smile on his face feeling as if it was permanently plastered there.  "This changes things."

Sherlock waved his free hand in the air, dismissively.  "It changes nothing.  Well, I suppose this means we can express ourselves through physical actions instead of remaining silent or being frustrated with each other."  


"Sherlock, I'm still going to be frustrated with you," John said evenly.  "You're too much of a git for me to give you a free pass just because I..."

There was a pause, a hesitancy, just a beat of uncertainty.  


But there was no need for John to finish his sentence.

"I know," Sherlock said.  "I've always known.  I'm far too observant to-"

"No, you're not," John said, not giving Sherlock even an inch.  "Otherwise you'd have done something about it."  


"I did do something about it.  I kissed you."

"You did not! I kissed you!"

"John, I think all of that sun is affecting your brain and changing your perception of your memories."  


"Sherlock, you-"

But what John was going to call him, they never found out, because Sherlock's lips were on John's again, softly kissing him and committing the feeling of the movement to his memory and his mind palace.  The day was not anything like all of the possibilities he had anticipated for, but the actual day had surpassed any of every expectation the detective had.   


And it wasn't even close to over.


	45. A day at the beach - Anne

Waves crashed, foam gathering at the edges of the active salt water as it crashed onto the land. Sherlock watched, mesmerized by the constant undulations of the ocean. In and out, in and out… A soothing sound accompanied the scene, working Sherlock into a state of deep meditation. He loved his family’s beach house, mostly because of the private beach that accompanied it. 

 

That was where John found him an hour later; blissed out, warm, and sweetly relaxed. 

 

“Sherlock… What are you doing?” Sherlock’s eyes flickered open, calm even though he had been disturbed by unexpected hands on his neck. John was taking his pulse. Interesting. 

 

“Just… lying here.” John lay himself out beside Sherlock on the sand at that, clearly satisfied that his best friend was very much alive. 

 

“Very relaxed.” 

 

“Hm?” 

 

“You. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed.” 

 

“How do you know? I could be in the midst of a crisis.” 

 

“I took your pulse, remember?” 

 

“Ah, right…” John flipped onto his side to observe his best friend, running his fingertips down Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock knew it was an affectionate gesture, and one that made a pleasant shiver run up his spine at that. It was clear that John loved seeing him so soft and relaxed. 

 

“Sherlock Holmes, you need to put on sunscreen,” John murmured, shaking his head in a disapproving manner and reaching into his bag to find some lotion. He put some into his hand and slowly rubbed it over Sherlock’s chest. 

 

The man underneath him hummed happily, stretching out his body under John’s hands. 

 

“Mm, I see, you git. You want a massage?” 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied instantly in a heavy, sultry voice that made John have to stop to catch his breath. 

 

“Okay, turn over…” They both knew that John loved acquiescing to Sherlock’s demands. Common knowledge, actually. It was one of the reasons John’s marriage with Mary had ended so badly. She liked Sherlock and she loved John, but she just couldn’t tolerate her husband’s obsession any longer. Going a month without seeing Sherlock was forever to them both. And Mary knew it. So she had packed her bags and left, taking her daughter with her. The parting had been amicable, but Sherlock had quickly whisked John away to the beach so he could properly recover from being parted from his family anyway. 

 

John was just happy to see Sherlock again, happy to make Sherlock breakfast (it was almost like he still had a baby to care for), and especially happy to touch Sherlock. 

 

“You’re spoiled,” John chided, pressing his hands into Sherlock’s back. 

 

“You like spoiling me.” Sherlock’s voice was labored and thick, although John could feel that his pulse was still very low. Relaxed then. Good. He loved it when his Sherlock was happy. 

 

“I do when you’re sweet like this. Not when you’re an arrogant, rude arse.” 

 

“You still spoil me when I’m an arse.” 

 

“Shut up…” 

 

John gently ran his nails down the length of Sherlock’s spine, scratching his back for a couple minutes, to Sherlock’s absolute pleasure, then rubbing away the redness with his palms. 

 

“Don’t stop…” Sherlock moaned gently when John pulled his hands away, and John obeyed, replacing his hands to Sherlock’s lower back this time and starting his massage up again. His hands moved lower and lower and Sherlock fell silent. John thought he might have fallen asleep. And then, in a single moment, John could feel Sherlock’s previously slow pulse begin to speed up. He dug his hands into Sherlock’s flesh again, as if he had noticed nothing, transitioning from massage into more scratching. 

 

“John…”

 

“What is it, Sherlock?” 

 

“Bit lower.” John responded slowly, only moving down a centimeter or so so that his hand was just removed from Sherlock’s arse. 

 

“Lower.” 

 

“Sherlock… come on,” John chastised, staring down at the shape of Sherlock’s arse through his swim shorts longingly. He had been staring at it for most of the massage, thinking about how easy it would be to slip his hands under Sherlock’s bathing suit. Sherlock clearly knew and was teasing him; John had more restraint than that, though. 

 

Sherlock said nothing in reply, so John contented himself with rubbing down Sherlock’s back again. 

 

For a while. 

 

Then his hands started dipping lower (Sherlock had given his permission, after all), exploring the round globes of flesh that he had been coveting for over four years. John tugged down the detective’s pants, and Sherlock said nothing. However, John could hear his breath catch in his throat. 

 

Touching Sherlock’s arse was even better than John had imagined it would be.  _Jesus_ , that was  _fucking_ good. John wanted to bury his face right in the middle, right between those cheeks. He settled with parting them, pulling them apart and gazing down at the entrance to Sherlock’s arse. 

 

He gently released one of the cheeks to run his finger down the crack, wetting his finger and then repeating the action more roughly. Not as good of an image, in John’s personal opinion. He huffed in frustration, finally scooting his body down and licking over the area with his tongue. 

 

One taste was all it took. John continued to lick, finally pressing his tongue into Sherlock’s body, to wild wiggling on Sherlock’s part and needy moaning. John held his thighs into place, forcing his tongue into the crevice again. 

 

Sherlock was getting hard. Very, very hard… 

 

“John, fuck me…” 

 

“Sherlock…” 

 

“Fuck me… I want you to fuck me.” 

 

“ _Yes_. Um… no… Just… give me a second.” It was easy when he was eating out his best friend in silence, but now that they were talking about it, things seemed suddenly more complicated.

 

“Not good?” 

 

“Good. Very good. Just confusing. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…”

 

“Yes, it’s fine.” Sherlock rolled onto his back again, and John felt a jolt of panic at seeing Sherlock’s face again, but he was smiling. “You’re fine.” Sherlock let out a deep breath, releasing all the pent up tension that had crept into his body, and then he kissed John lightly on the lips before slowly laying back down on the sand.

 

John lay on his side next to Sherlock again, running his fingertips down Sherlock’s chest, just as he had when he had first found his best friend deeply relaxed in the sand. And then John and Sherlock listened to the waves, comforted by the repetitive crashing sound of water going in and out. 


	46. Waiting for Hogwarts Letter - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is: Waiting for Hogwarts Letter.

“Should we be worried about him?” John asked.  
  
“He has an active imagination,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yeah, I realise that, but should we be worried? I could get a recommendation for a child psychologist,” John said.  
  
“No. Absolutely not. He has an active imagination. I was the same. I thought I was going to be a pirate until I turned thirteen,” Sherlock said.

John grinned. “Yeah, I know that,” he said.  
  
“What? Who- Bloody Mycroft. He can keep all the secrets of this nation but he let's something like that slip,” Sherlock said. He huffed and cracked a boiled egg open with his spoon.  
  
“He's been sitting down there for days waiting for the mail. He told me yesterday that there's only two more days until it's too late for the letter to come. He's going to be disappointed. Can't we tell him that it's just a story?” John asked.  
  
“No! Absolutely not, John,” Sherlock said. He remembered what it had been like when Mycroft had decided he was to old to play and had told him that pirates didn't exist anymore (even though they did) and he needed to put his brain to better work. He had enjoyed being a child. He enjoyed watching their son being a child. “Absolutely not,” he repeated.  
  
John sighed heavily. “Okay. What are we to do then? He can't sit down there all day tomorrow and not get anything. He'll be crushed,” he said. There were trials and challenges he had expected when he'd become a parent. His son waiting for a Hogwarts Letter that was not going to come had not been one of them.  
  
”I'll take care of it,” Sherlock said.  
  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The following morning, Sherlock sat at the bottom of the stairs, reading Philosopher's Stone aloud with a rapt audience of one little boy. They had come to the part where the storm was raging and there was a knock on the door when the mail slot opened and the post came through. Hamish jerked from surprise and a small and very brief smile showed on Sherlock's face.  
  
Hamish ran forward and looked through the envelopes. When he saw his name on an envelope made of heavy parchment, he gasped.  
  
“Dad! _Dad!_ ” he called. He was holding the envelope so tightly in his hands he was crunching up the edges.  
  
“What? Are you surprised? Of course it would come. I tell you, the organisation of that place has gone downhill since McGonagall retired,” Sherlock said, shaking his head in apparent disapproval.  
  
“You know Professor McGonagall?” Hamish asked with wide eyes.  
  
“Of course I do. She was head of your daddy's house, you know,” Sherlock said.  
Hamish's eyes widened even more. Sherlock recognised Hamish's processing face and patiently waited for his little boy to finish thinking.  
  
“ _Daddy!_ _”_ Hamish suddenly shouted. He scrambled up the stairs and held up the letter. “Daddy, look!”  
  
John stared. Sherlock came up the stairs, his gait confident and a look on his face like he'd just eaten fifteen biscuits in a row.  
  
“You got a letter from Hogwarts?” John asked.  
  
“Yeah! Read it!” Hamish said, shoving the letter at John.  
  
“No! It's addressed to you, Hamish. You read it,” Sherlock said.  
  
Hamish looked unsure. It was overwhelming holding such a coveted item in his hands. “Okay,” he said finally. With delicate movements, he opened the envelope.  
  


John stepped up behind him to read.

 

_Mr. Watson-Holmes,_  
  
We are delighted to inform that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As of this year we require all first years to undergo two years of Muggle schooling to learn writing, maths and  _ especially _ _ chemistry _ _to be able to cope with classes like Potions. Please do your best as the rest of your magical schooling will depend on it._  
  
Kindest Regards,  
  
Neville Longbottom,  
_Acting h_ _eadmaster._

 

Hamish was hyperventilating with excitement and started to babble a mile a minute about all the things he was going to learn to impress Professor Longbottom.  
  
John looked at Hamish and was sure he had never loved anything more, and then he saw the way Sherlock was smiling at Hamish and had to admit there would be an everlasting tie between the two.


	47. Waiting for Hogwarts Letter - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts. Check out her other entries first!

__  
  
Sherlock and John continued to lie on the blanket, the sun warming their already flushed faces from kissing, their fingers intertwined as they held hands.  They had reached another contented lull in their conversations, both of them smiling like idiots at each other.   
  
"That explains last night," Sherlock said out of nowhere, a noise of acknowledgement sounding in his throat.   
  
  
"Hm?" John asked, perplexed.  "What? The drinking?"  
  
"No, the lisp.  And your reaction to it."  
  
"My...what reaction?" John asked.  He had thought that he had kept his composure together fairly well, not alerting Sherlock to the fact that the sound of his clumsy tongue was easily one of the most alluring things he had ever heard.   


"We talked of how you found it sexy, only it was discussed as if we were not being serious and that it was a joke," Sherlock said simply.  "But it was not a joke.  You, in fact, _did_ find it very sexy.  Your pupils dilated and your lips parted and you...you liked it."  


John's ears burned like they were on fire, his jaw clenching tightly.  "Yes," he said.  "I did like it.  I _do_ like it."

Sherlock nodded to himself, adding that fact to the _Important Information about John Watson_ wing of his mind palace.  Perhaps he would need to construct a new room or a sub-wing for items of information pertaining to John's sexual preferences.  He would need to tidy up the information previously collected on the matter.  The point that John only wanted women, for instance, needed to be changed immediately.

"I am curious to see what else you like," Sherlock said.  "We will need to do some research and experiments while we are here.  Is there anything you specifically like?  Have you been with a man before?  I never thought to ask because I assumed you were only attracted to women, so now I have to change my mindset.  When can we have sex, John?  I assume that's what people in relationships do.  Have regular and consistent sex.  What role is required of me as your boyfriend?  I assume that I will still be sending you letters while you are abroad, but will there need to be more risqué items in those letters such as photographs?  What do the other soldiers receive from their boyfriends or girlfriends?  Will we go on dates together?  Go to dinner?  John, explain to me what we will need to do as boyfriends."

Sherlock said all of this very quickly, speaking every thought as it came into his mind.  There was no filter for it, like there never was, but he barely stopped to take a breath.  John, at that moment, was finding it very difficult to breathe.  Everything Sherlock had brought up had given him pause, but not in a way that made him not think he should be with Sherlock and do all of the things Sherlock said.  It was more that John had scarcely allowed himself to think that any sort of romantic relationship with the great consulting detective would be an attainable possibility.  Hearing Sherlock rattle off a list of things he wanted and things they could do together overwhelmed John.

"Whoa," he said, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze.  "Calm down there for a second, Sherlock.  Give my brain a chance to catch up."

"It's not my fault your intellect is-"  But he stopped before he insulted John.  "Will you break up with me if I insult you?" 

  
The question was so unlike anything John would ever think Sherlock would ever say that he found himself laughing.  "Sherlock, I would be terrified if you stopped insulting me.  Don't get me wrong, it would be a lovely change of pace to not feel like I'm an idiot all the time, but it would be so unlike you that I wouldn't know how to act.  So just...be yourself, alright?  That's who I fell in love with."  
  
Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he blinked many times in quick succession.   
  
"Okay," John said slowly, his entire face reddening heavily.  "I guess that was too much too soon.  Forget I said that.  Just...delete it."  
  
"I will not delete that," Sherlock said swiftly.  "Thank you, John.  I...reciprocate the emotion."  
  
John was momentarily hurt, but nodded, a small grin forming.  _He loves me too._   "Well, that took a long time to get out."  
  
"It was quite a long wait, but I daresay it was worth it."  
  
"Just like a Hogwarts letter," John said cheekily.  "Took forever to get here but it's going to be pretty good, I think."  
  
Sherlock scoffed.  "Only pretty good?"  
  
John smirked.  "Well, prove me wrong.  Prove that it'll be better.  You Ravenclaw, show me how clever you can be."  
  
With a raised eyebrow, Sherlock asked, "John, if you're making a veiled sexual comment about me being clever, I feel the need to reiterate that all of this is not my area.  I am lacking in the experience that you have.  I...am realising that you just meant that you want me to not be so insufferable all the time."  
  
"See?" John asked with a grin.  "Such a Ravenclaw.  So smart and perceptive."  
  
"Do you want to go back to the house and see how clever I can be?" Sherlock asked seductively.  
  
"Yes," John replied, his voice husky with urgency.   
  
Quickly, they packed up the blanket and their belongings and left the little beach, starting the winding walk back up the road that led to through the main village and to the cottage.  A bit timidly, John and Sherlock tested the waters and held hands, both of them deciding after a few minutes that their walking pace was too fast to be doing it and amiably letting their hands fall to their sides.   
  
"So are you going to cook dinner for us again tonight?"  
  
"No," Sherlock said.  "Let's order something here for takeaway."  
  
"You have takeaway here?"  
  
"John, this actually is still considered to be civilisation. Even though it isn't as-"  
  
"I don't fucking believe it," came a strange voice from one of the stores on the street.  "Sherlock bloody Holmes."  
  
Sherlock and John wheeled around quickly and both of their jaws dropped.  John had never met the bloke before, but he had glared furiously at the photograph in the album long enough to be able to recognise the face with its angles and intense eyes, the reddish brown hair that was perfectly styled, and the tall and lean body that looked so comfortably relaxed.   
  
"Victor," Sherlock said in awe, staring at the handsome face he had thought he would never see again. 


	48. Waiting for Hogwarts Letter - Anne

“I even waited for my Hogwarts letter…” Those were the first words John heard out of Sherlock’s lovely lips when he admitted to his best friend that he had been writing Harry Potter fanfiction. 

 

“I had never been so upset before, so utterly distraught, as when it didn’t come,” the young genius continued with a weak laugh as he gestured for John to join him on his bed. John was spending the summer at Sherlock's house due to unsavory home conditions, and Sherlock had found some interesting files saved on his computer. Not like he cared what John did in his free time. John was actually a passable writer, and Sherlock had always harbored a special fondness for the Harry Potter books. Besides, he was just happy to have his best friend from university staying with him.

 

While John had obviously never received a Hogwarts letter of his own, he couldn’t help but be disturbed that Sherlock hadn’t either. He could almost imagine Sherlock as a lonely (and bulled) child, placing faith into fantasy and longing for an escape. Sherlock certainly seemed magical, and if anyone deserved to be acknowledged for being special, it was John’s best friend.

 

“So… which house would you be in?” John asked carefully, worried that his obsession with Harry Potter wouldn’t go over well with his university friend, even though the other boy seemed pretty cool about the whole thing. 

 

“Ravenclaw,” Sherlock answered immediately, resting his legs in John’s lap.

 

“Makes sense. Because you’re such a brilliant git.” 

 

“How about you?” 

 

“I didn’t expect a letter. Didn’t even wait for one…” 

 

“Maybe it’s just late. Coming with mine.” Sherlock teased, indicating that it was acceptable for John to expand on his subject.

 

“Gryffindor.”

 

“Not Ravenclaw?” 

 

“No, I’m not smart like you.” 

 

“Then I want to be in Gryffindor too,” Sherlock amended immediately. John didn’t feel like reminding Sherlock that it didn’t work like that. Besides, Harry Potter had been allowed to pick his house, and Sherlock Holmes was at least as powerful as Harry Potter. 

 

“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind when I’m writing.” 

 

“Oh? Writing about me?” 

 

“Maybe.” 

 

John opened his laptop again at that, scooting his back against the backboard of Sherlock’s bed and beginning to write a new piece. Sherlock continued to lie in his lap and watched, enthralled by the way John’s eyes lit up as he worked. 

 

“Can I see?” 

 

“No…” John muttered, mind still clearly focused on the task at hand. Sherlock groaned in frustration, curious to see just what John was writing about him, but too tired to press the issue.

 

“This is private… I’m not exactly happy you read what you did.” 

 

“You’re not?”

 

“Well… Okay, I kind of liked it. But this is private.”

 

“Mm, what are you writing about me?”

 

“ _Private,_ “ John repeated for the third time, feeling his face grow red as he typed. He knew Sherlock would go through his computer looking for what he was working on. And he knew Sherlock would find it. That was kind of the point. He just hoped Sherlock wouldn’t be angry. 

 

_John snuck into the 6th year common room, climbing into the four poster bed of one Sherlock Holmes, the most talented wizard in Gryffindor since Harry Potter and his band of warriors. “Sherlock… Sherlock, wake up.” John climbed into his boyfriend’s bed, pressing a gentle kiss into dark curls. He was terribly in love with the brilliant wizard, couldn’t even get a decent night’s sleep without him. Sherlock kept his nightmares at bay._

 

So far so good. Where was John going with this though? What exactly did he want Sherlock Holmes to know?

 

_“John?” a sleepy Sherlock murmured, helping John under the covers and burrowing close to his chest. “Yeah… I was missing you. Wanted a kiss.” Sherlock laughed softly at that, pressing a long, warm kiss to John’s lips, and making the older boy’s whole being light up. “I love you…” Sherlock said tenderly, drifting back to sleep. “Love you too, Sherlock Holmes…”_

 

John wanted to keep writing. He wanted to write a whole life for them, complete with all the magic that they had both longed for when they were growing up. After all, he knew that they had both been the type of children who could use a bit of magic in their lives, and he hoped that he could rewrite the past, make it all better with his words. He was struggling to keep his eyes open though, so with a long sigh, he shut his computer and let sleep overtake him.

 

When Sherlock awoke a few hours later, John’s arm was draped around his waist and his laptop was resting by their feet. Tempting. Very tempting. John had said that his work was private, but if the other boy really didn’t want Sherlock to see what he had written, then he would have put his laptop away. 

 

Or locked it. 

 

Instead it was still turned on and the top secret document was still open.

 

It took Sherlock all of a minute to read through the couple paragraphs John had typed out before bed. However, it took him a lot longer to process what he had read. 

 

Boyfriend? Kissing? Love? Did John actually want that sort of thing, or was this a sick joke? 

 

Sherlock sat in silence, his brilliant mind whirring away in the darkness. And then he took action, slowly working himself into John’s arms. 

 

“John…” The other boy stirred gently, just barely rousing at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. 

 

“Sher… Sleeping…” 

 

“I love you.” Suddenly John was wide awake, blinking his eyes with a bewildered look on his face. Then he understood. 

 

“You read it.” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“And…?”

 

“Even better than a Hogwarts letter.” Sherlock leaned forward awkwardly, and fit their lips together, finally breaking away and resting his head to John’s chest. 

 

John beamed. Not only was his love better than a Hogwarts letter, but Sherlock had made fiction reality. 

 

John had never experienced such magic. 


	49. Heat Wave - Avath

John was sprawled out on his bed, his shirt halfheartedly pulled up his belly and his jeans somewhere on the floor, revealing pale legs and red pants. He was so hot. Too hot. The heat wave that had come over London had knocked John right off his feet and he didn't think he would be able to move until the inevitable rain came back.  
  
“John.”  
  
“Mm,” John hummed.

“John.”  
  
“Can't help you,” John mumbled. He just wanted to sleep until the day passed into what he hoped would be a cooler night.

“John, open your mouth.”  
  
“Oho, I'm not playing that game again. Look, Sherlock, it's too hot for sex. Later,” John said. He tried to turn on his side, away from Sherlock but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He made a disgruntled noise and he heard Sherlock sigh.  
  
“Fine. Have it your way,” Sherlock said. John felt the cool edge of a spoon press between his lips. Ice cream. He opened his mouth greedily and accepted it. “You'd think a veteran of Afghanistan would be able to cope with a little heat.”  
  
“Shut up,” John said. He opened his mouth for more ice cream. He hadn't event tasted what flavour it was, just that it was ice cold and creamy.  
  
Sherlock fed him a few more spoons before he abruptly got off the bed and disappeared. It left John feeling far worse than he'd felt before he'd been under the care of his boyfriend. Sherlock soon returned, however, and pushed a frozen bottle of water in each of John's armpits. John hummed in relief. It was so aggressively cold against the oppressive heat around him. He didn't like the aggressive cold against the next place Sherlock decided to go for.  
  
“N-no!” he called out, his eyes opening wide in shock as he felt another frozen bottle of water being pushed against his body. Specifically, between his legs. Even more specifically, against his testicles. He tried to squirm away but Sherlock was sitting so he could not. And furthermore, Sherlock was giggling.

“You _arsehole,”_ John said.  
  
“You know I'm not a nice man. I had to balance it out. Now, eat the rest of your ice cream,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Can't,” John said, relaxing back into the bed after adjusting the bottle between his legs so they weren't pressing directly against his balls. “You need to feed me.”  
  
“Oh, for heaven's sake, John. You're an adult,” Sherlock said.

  
“Yes. And I want to be fed ice cream,” he said.He didn't have the energy to mention all the ways Sherlock often lacked as an adult. Instead he waited for ice cream and nothing happened. “Captain Watson wants to be fed ice cream,” he said. That usually did the trick.  
The spoon very quickly met his lips again but the ice cream did very little to cool the quickly rising heat between them.


	50. Heat Wave - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on these prompts. Read the others first or you'll be all ???

So there Victor was, walking out of the store and moving towards them, looking at Sherlock with disbelief and adoration.  John instantly hated him with every fibre of his being.  He barely registered how how handsome this stranger was, despising every feature that would make him attractive to Sherlock.  John did not want to admit that this ponce had aged well, and so he instead focused on the fact that Sherlock had told John that he didn't have fond memories about that summer and that it was an unrequited crush.  Surely that meant that Victor did not pose as a threat.  
  
But then again, what did John know?  Sherlock had told him nothing.   
  
"Sher," Victor said as he approached, his voice practically cooing the name.  John wrinkled his face in pure disgust.  _Sher?_    
  
"Hello, Victor," Sherlock replied, his eyes still wide in shock.  "I did not know that this was a place you still visited."  
  
"Oh yeah," Victor said, not sparing a glance towards John, who was waiting to be introduced, pulling himself up to his full height.  "Still can't keep myself away from this place.  Too many good memories and activities to partake in."  And then he took a step towards Sherlock and flung his arms around him in an enormous and all-encompassing hug.  
  
John recoiled.  


 

"Are you here with your family?" Victor asked, pulling back and keeping his hands on Sherlock's upper arms, appraising him with his eyes.  "Mr. and Mrs. Holmes around?  Mycroft?"

"No, actually," Sherlock said.  "I'm-"

"Mycroft still as fat as he was?"

Grinning slightly, Sherlock said, "He's slimmed down a bit, but I still give him a difficult time about being on his diet.  Victor, I-"

"Do you remember that night when we left out a plate of chocolates for him after adding... _things_...to them?  I don't think I've laughed that hard since.  Watching him eat them all and not know what was inside of them?"  Victor let out a laugh that seemed to reverberate through the street.  He was still completely ignoring John, acting as if he were invisible.  "I've really missed you, Sher.  Dinner tonight to catch up?"

A wave of hot and boiling anger, a heat unlike anything John had ever known, rolled over him and he found himself clenching his fists.  It took every single ounce of self restraint he had not to let his jealousy consume him completely and to punch this tall and rude arsehole in his face.

"I'm afraid I have other engagements," Sherlock said, taking a step back to separate himself from Victor's hold.  "I'm here for a few days with _John_." 

For the first time, Victor turned and spared a glance at John (who swore that the look he was being given was a sneer) before turning back to Sherlock.  "How charming," he said, his voice injected with an abundance of feigned sweetness.  "Then let's go get coffee right now, Sher.  Maybe go for a walk?  I missed you. I just want to talk to you.  There have been quite a few developments in my life since I last saw you."

John was smiling now, but it was a smile that was almost malicious.  There was no warmth there, no kindness, no joviality.  "Great," he said, his voice reflecting the expression on his face.  "Sounds like a great conversation that can happen through texting.  And not today.  We have plans, Victor, but it was nice to meet you."

Victor scoffed at John, completely undeterred and not at all bothered or threatened.  "Excuse me," he said, "But last I checked, Sherlock was capable of talking for himself."

"Yeah," said John, his eyebrows raising in challenge.  "And you would know that how?  Because you're not giving him much of a chance to talk at all now, are you?"

"Who are you, exactly?" Victor asked with accentuated politeness. 

"I'm his-" But John paused.  They were boyfriends, Sherlock had brought it up.  _And then you told him to slow down, you great big idiot.  You never said yes.  And you can't say it now in front of this prick._ "I'm his boyfriend," John said, though his voice was not nearly as strong with conviction as it had just been.

Victor smirked and pounced upon the opportunity.  "Of course you are," he said.  "That was quite convincing."  Turning back towards Sherlock, Victor reached out and took hold of the detective's hand.  "Sherry baby," he said softly, his eyes looking at Sherlock's seductively.  "I think you'll find that _I_ can make you happy.  You've missed me since that summer.  You must've.  I've missed you.  All I'm asking is for one walk down to our old spot near the lake.  What can _he_ really offer you that I can't?" 

John bristled and felt his ears start to grow warm.  He waited for Sherlock to answer, but before anything could happen, Victor began speaking again.

"Honestly, he's about half the height that you are," Victor said, allowing a chuckle to permeate his condescending tone.  "He's like a hobbit.  I can't imagine the sex can be any good."

John and Sherlock glanced at each other nervously.  They had only just kissed, and even that had just happened.  Sex?  That was not on their radar at all just yet. 

"We've not-" Sherlock began and Victor let out another laugh. 

"Oh God," he said, between chuckles.  "You haven't even _shagged_ yet and this one here thinks he has a claim on you and can stop you from seeing me."

The last person John wanted knowing about their newly formed relationship was Victor.  Another wave of heat crashed over him, turning his ears and face vermillion in colour.  John's stomach flipped and he felt embarrassed for being put on display in front of this stranger, embarrassed that Sherlock had even said anything at all.

"Victor, I can make my own decisions," Sherlock said. 

"I know that," Victor replied.  "But, what did you say his name was?  John?  Dreadfully boring.  You never did seem the type to settle.  I'm surprised by you, Sherlock.  I'd have thought you'd hold out for someone special and more worthy of you."

There it was, stated by someone John thoroughly hated, after only a few minutes.  Had that not always been his fear?  That the great Sherlock Holmes would want someone brilliant like him?  What could John offer that Sherlock could not find in someone else?  Someone better?  _Married to my work_...The words echoed in his head.

"I have found that person, Victor," Sherlock said, and John looked up, startled.  "I have been living with him for quite some time now.  He is the bravest and wisest man I have ever known, and I will not tolerate you speaking about him like that, Victor."

John and Victor both looked at Sherlock in awe, though as John's turned into a smile, Victor's turned into a frown.  "Sher," he said.  "Be reasonable about this."

"Oh, I am being perfectly reasonable," Sherlock said calmly.  "The last time I saw you, it was after I, as a naive fifteen year old, told you that I had feelings for you.  And _you_ , as a cocky sixteen year old, told me that you were not interested and just wanted to be friend.  This was an agreement I could see myself partaking in, had it not been for the fact that you told everyone else in the village about my declaration and that long after you left that summer, I had to endure an endless onslaught of inquiries and whispers. And now you turn up after years of silence, and because I am now handsome enough for your liking to be a conquest, you think you can charm your way into my heart and into my bed?"  Sherlock shook his head.  "No, Victor.  I am not the same impressionable person I was as a teenager.  Thanks to people like you, I have lost faith in almost everyone.  Everyone except John."

Victor stood looking horrified at what Sherlock had just said.  He turned and glared at John.  "What have you done to him?"

John should have ignored him and walked away.  He should not have instigated and caused any sort of scene.  He should have been the bigger person.  But, as Victor had pointed out, John was not bigger.  And so, it was a few minutes later that John had grabbed Sherlock's hand and was walking briskly back to the house, Victor's nose bleeding and swollen from being broken by John's fist. 

"John," Sherlock said as they walked.  "What-"

"Quiet," John said, his blood pulsing in his ears.  "Don't you say another word."

The moment they had entered into the cottage and the door had closed behind them, John wheeled around and pushed Sherlock against the door.  "Did you mean it?" he asked urgently.  "What you said back there to him.  Did you mean it?"

Sherlock's eyes searched John's for some sort of hint as to what was going on, how angry John was for meeting Victor and for everything that Victor had said to insult John.  "Every word," he said quietly.

John nodded to himself once before pressing his lips hard against Sherlock's, succumbing to the wave of heat and passion that was passing through him, rocking him to his core.  His entire body seemed to be screaming to be close to Sherlock, to feel the pale skin moving against his tan skin from the sunny desert.  The heat radiating between their bodies as the furiously kissed clouded John's brain.  Years of sexual tension were being absolved through their conjoined lips, their tongues sliding against one another, and their bodies getting lost in endless waves of heat as they stumbled away from the door and deeper into the lake house.


	51. Heat Wave - Anne

The temperature was rising in the flat, and Sherlock was dying. 

 

Literally dying. 

 

Okay, not literally. Figuratively. But it certainly felt like the heat was sucking the life out of him.

 

He was remarkably overheated, and John’s choice of attire wasn’t helping. Not one bit. 

 

John had to be plenty cool though, what with the minimal amount of clothing he was wearing. Sherlock moaned deeply from his place on the couch, feeling a bead of sweat run down his cheek and verbally mourning the heat. What had he done to deserve heat like this? They were in London, for fuck’s sake, not the desert.

 

“Sherlock, shush,” John immediately chastised, more than tired of hearing Sherlock whine. 

 

“But I”m hot.” 

 

“I know. Try taking your clothes off,” John suggested in an easy tone, fanning himself with a newspaper Sherlock had left lying around. 

 

“What?”

 

“I’m actually surprised you aren’t lounging around in the nude already. Try taking your clothes off.” John would certainly like that, wouldn’t he? And Sherlock wasn’t about to complain. He rather liked being naked around John, mostly because in recent months it usually meant that they were about to have sex. And sex was good. Sex with  _John_ was extraordinarily good, even if he wasn’t exactly sure what the doctor wanted from him. Clearly not anything more than what they had, right? John would have said something by this point. 

 

“Too much effort.” 

 

“I see. Need someone to undress you?” John teased, looking over Sherlock’s body like a starving animal would over a slab of meat.

 

“You’re free to, John.” Mm, Sherlock loved it when John undressed him. It made him feel safe, desired, loved. Even if John didn’t love him.

 

“Ah, do you want a shag, Sherlock?” 

 

“Absolutely not. It’s too hot.” 

 

“Oh? Because it’s beginning to sound like you want a shag.” Sherlock grinned despite himself at that, flipping over on the couch to peer at John, who was wearing nothing but his pants. John looked hot too, even given his lack of socially acceptable clothing. Hot in a sultry, irresistible way that made Sherlock desperately want sex. 

 

But it really was too hot for that sort of thing.

 

“Too hot…” 

 

“Alright, let me take care of it.” John approached the couch with mock confidence, running a hand through Sherlock’s sweaty hair first, still a bit scared to outright touch him. Hair was safer than skin; Sherlock pretty much always loved having his hair played with. 

 

They had only been shagging for a few months, and John knew more than most that Sherlock could be impossibly prickly and unaccommodating when someone did something he didn’t like. Besides, Sherlock seemed to be working especially hard to keep John at arm’s length at the moment, and he didn’t want the other man to push him away even more. He could only hope that everything would remain civil between them as long as John attacked every Sherlock related situation with the appropriate level of caution. 

 

“Come here, Sher…” 

 

John began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt after only a moment’s pause, relieved to find that Sherlock didn’t snap at him or complain. 

 

It was difficult to pinpoint what the boundaries were given the nature of their relationship. John simply knew they weren’t together, and when they weren’t fucking, he was Sherlock’s acting parent. Honestly, it was all a bit too much for him.

 

“There you go. Better?” John crooned, folding Sherlock’s shirt and setting it on the table before undoing the other man's trousers. Sherlock only nodded, relaxing perceptibly as John attended to his needs. It took the doctor all of a minute to have Sherlock stripped naked, at which point he couldn’t help but steal a few lingering touches down the detective’s chest. But Sherlock quickly swatted his hand away.

 

“John…” John swallowed and took a step back, admittedly a bit hurt by Sherlock’s indifferent cruelty. 

 

“I know. Too hot. I’ll be in my room.” 

 

“Wait…” Sherlock sat up as John began to leave, standing and going to meet the other man by the stairs. John was upset. John was always upset now that they were fucking, and Sherlock despised it. He was in love with John, after all, which meant that he was willing to play nice in order to keep John happy. “Aren’t you going to take a shower with me?”

 

“What?”

 

“Take a shower with me…”

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s hot. I like showering with you. And you were right. I want a shag.” 

 

“Shower sex. I like your thinking.” Sherlock tentatively rested his head on John’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around John’s back and braving the heat for a long hug. 

 

“I love you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to John’s neck, and then tugging him towards the bathroom. Kisses peppered John’s face and by the time John had another opportunity to speak he was breathless.

 

“You… you do?” The doctor followed his detective, even resting a gentle arm around Sherlock’s waist as they walked.

 

“Yes. Of course.” 

 

“I love you too, Sherlock…” It felt good to say, but John could feel Sherlock’s whole body tense up upon hearing those magic words. Warm water should fix that. Warm water and a good fuck. 

 

Luckily, taking care of Sherlock’s needs was John’s speciality. 


	52. Two Passports - Avath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Two Passports.

 

It was during a sleepover at Sherlock's house that the plan was originally thought up. Sherlock had noticed that John had seemed out of sorts the last times they had seen each other and hadn't seemed to enjoy playing as much as he usually did. John's naps had lasted longer, leaving Sherlock to impatiently wait for him to wake up with nothing but a juice box and a book to distract him from the fact that his best friend was too asleep to play with him.

  
  


So Sherlock had known something was wrong with John but hadn't known what or how to ask what it was. All he could do was walk around with a worried knot in his stomach and hope that John felt better.   
  
“Sherlock?” John whispered in the dark a few minutes after Sherlock's mummy had put them to bed.  
  
“Yeth?” Sherlock whispered back.  
  
“I don't want to go home tomorrow,” John said.  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock said. He didn't want John to go either. They could live together in Sherlock's room and always share his bed. Mummy always made better snacks when John was there anyway and always bought strawberry juice boxes.

Sherlock was just starting to doze off when he awoke with a gasp to a horrible noise. John was _crying_.  
  
“John? What'th wrong? Did you have a bad dream?” Sherlock asked, scooting closer and peering into what he could see of John's face.  
  
“No. I don't want to go home,” John sniffed.  
  
“Why not?” Sherlock asked. The worried knot in his stomach tightened painfully.   
  
“Dad's mad all the time and sometimes he gets mad at me,” John whispered.   
  
“Why'th he mad?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Because I didn't clean my room and because Harriet and I foughted and because I talked when football was on and because I wanted cereal and not porridge for breakfast,” John said. There were more examples of what he'd done to make his dad mad but thinking of them made him feel terrible and guilty. He didn't mean to make his dad so mad. He didn't think his dad should be so mad. It confused him how he could feel so guilty and still wonder if he'd deserved getting mad at.   
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said. John sniffed louder, hurt that Sherlock seemed to agree with his dad.   
  
“I do thothe thingth all the time and I don't get yelled at that muth,” Sherlock said. His stomach was hurting very badly.   
  
“You don't?” John asked.   
  
“No. They uthually athk what I want for breakfatht. I don't like porridge either,” Sherlock said.

“ _I hate stupid porridge_ ,” John snapped.  
  
“Mummy bought me chocolate thereal. We can have that for breakfatht. Do you want thome now?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Yeah!” John said.   
  
The tiptoed downstairs to avoid the detection of Sherlock's parents, who were still watching television in the sitting room. As quietly as they could, they pulled a chair from the dining table so they could reach the cupboard the cereal was in.   
  
“Did you get it?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Wait!” John hissed. Sherlock was always so impatient. It wasn't so easy finding the box in the dark.  
  
Just as John had found the box and taken it out with excitement making his stomach flutter, the ceiling lamp was turned on.  
  
“What are you doing?” It was Sherlock's dad. John's face crumpled into new tears and he dropped the cereal box in fright. He was going to get yelled at by Sherlock's dad and then they were going to call his dad and he would get yelled at by him too.   
  
“We're getting thereal,” Sherlock said loudly to try to cover up the sound of John's crying.  
  
“At this time of night?” Sherlock's dad asked.   
  
“Yeth. John thaid he doethn't get thereal at home becauthe hith dad yellth at him tho we wanted to get thereal now,” Sherlock said.   
  
Sherlock's dad recognised the stubborn look on his son's face and his heart squeezed in his chest from the look of terror on John's face.  
  
“Can I have some too?” he asked.   
  
“Yeth, if you get the bowlth,” Sherlock said. If his dad was going to interrupt, he was going to have to make himself useful.   
  
“Okay. You boys sit down and I'll fetch everything,” he said.  
  
Soon they were sitting, each with a bowl of cereal in front of them. John was happily munching away but Sherlock couldn't find his appetite.  
  
“Daddy, can John come live here? He can thtay in my room,” Sherlock said.  
  
“John has his own room at his own house,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
“But it'th not ath nithe and Mr. Watthon ith mean to him,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Shut up!” John said angrily. He didn't want Mr. Holmes to tell on him to his dad.   
  
“No! It'th the _truth_ ,” Sherlock said.

Mr. Holmes was a good parent. He didn't always understand his hyper intelligent sons but he loved them and did his very best. Hard situations arose constantly when he and his wife had to navigate the world with their two very unique children. Truthfully, it could be exhausting, but it was always worth it. He had come to view himself as an extra parent for John and he knew Mrs. Holmes felt the same but he didn't have any right to John in any legal sense.   
  
“How is your dad mean to you?” Mr. Holmes asked. He kept eating to keep the conversation feeling light so John wouldn't clam up.  
  
“I don't know. He yells at me and then he broked my truck,” John said. He sniffed and quickly ate another spoonful of cereal.  
  
“He _broke_ your _truck_?” Sherlock asked. John's truck was his favourite thing in the world.   
  
“He threw it at the wall and it broked,” John said.   
  
“Daddy!” Sherlock whined. He kicked his legs under the table in frustration. His daddy had to make it all better. His daddy would say John could live here all the time and they would get him a new truck and nobody would yell at him (except maybe Mycroft).  
  
“Has he ever hurt you?” Mr. Holmes asked. He kept his face as kind as he could even though he was starting to get very angry. He didn't want John to misunderstand and think it was him the nager was directed at.

John didn't answer. He stared at his bowl of cereal.   
  
“John, please answer me,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
“No,” John said. It was a lie.

“No, he hasn't hurt you?” Mr. Holmes asked.  
  
“Yes,” John said.  
  
“Good. Adults aren't supposed to do that,” Mr. Holmes said. He was relieved.   
  
_They aren't?_ John thought. He started to think that maybe he shouldn't have lied but it was too late to go back on it now. Lying was a bad thing and bad things made him get yelled at and sometimes hurt.

“He can thtay here forever?” Sherlock asked hopefully.  
  
“He can sleep over sometimes, but he has his own house,” Mr. Holmes said.   
  
Sherlock gaped and Mr. Holmes readied himself for an onslaught of Sherlock's temper. It didn't come. Instead Sherlock slid off his chair and ran upstairs, slamming his door loudly.   
  
“Oh dear me,” Mr. Holmes said. “Better give him some time to calm down, John. Let's finish our cereal,” he said.   
  
John nodded. He ate even though his tummy hurt. He had hoped that maybe he could live with Sherlock and not live with his dad anymore. He had decided that he liked Sherlock more than he liked his own dad.

Ten minutes later, John went back upstairs to Sherlock's room. Sherlock was on his knees, furiously working a pair of scissors on heavy cardboard.  
  
“What are you doing? Your dad said we should go to sleep now,” John said. They weren't supposed to be playing anymore.  
  
“I'm making pathporth,” Sherlock said.  
  
“What's a passport?” John asked.  
  
“It'th tho we can run away. We can go to any country we like if we have pathportth,” Sherlock said. The colour of the cardboard wasn't exactly like he remembered passports being but he couldn't imagine it made much difference. The important thing was that it had their names and pictures and lots of numbers in the corner.   
  
“Run away?” John asked.

“Yeth. We'll go make our _own_ houthe,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Okay,” John said. He sat down next to Sherlock to watch him expertly create passports for them with the cardboard and markers.   
  
“What'th your middle name,” Sherlock asked.  
  
“No,” John said.  
  
“John, I need to know your middle name or they won't let uth travel,” Sherlock said.   
  
John squirmed where he sat. He had told one of his friends once and they had made fun of him and said he wasn't English if he had a stupid name like that.   
  
“We can't run away if you don't tell me,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Hamish,” John said. He sounded miserable.  
  
“Hamith,” Sherlock repeated before he wrote it down. 

John got so anxious waiting for Sherlock to tease him that he wanted to get him going. “It's a stupid name,” he said.  
  
“Hamith? No, it'th not,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Oh,” John said. Maybe it wasn't, then.

Sherlock took so long making the passports that John fell asleep on the floor.   
  
“John!” Sherlock said to rouse him. The dawn's first light was starting to come through the window. “Wake up. The pathportth are done. We can go. Get your backpack,” he said.  
  
John got up and rubbed his eyes. “Go?” he asked, feeling an explosion of excitement in his tummy. “Yeth. Let'th go. We'll go to the airport. We can go anywhere,” Sherlock said. Anywhere John would like to go, they would go.   
  
Sherlock had already packed a bag and all John had to do was change out of his pyjamas and they were ready to go.   
  
They walked for hours. John's feet had never hurt so much in his life and he wished they'd bought more juice boxes and snacks. “Can't we take the bus?” he asked finally. He didn't want to walk anymore.   
  
“ _Yeth_ ,” Sherlock realised. How had he not thought of it himself? He had taken the bus to the airport before with Mycroft to meet their mummy when she'd come home one time. And with his excellent memory, Sherlock knew just which bus it was and could figure out where to get on it.

“How are we going to pay for it?” John asked when they had come to the nearest bus station. He didn't have any money and he knew you had to pay to ride the bus.  
  
“I have thome,” Sherlock said. He'd taken it out of his dad's wallet.   
  
“Okay,” John said. He accepted it; Sherlock always seemed to have everything they needed to carry out their plans.

The bus came and they got on. The earned a curious look from the bus driver but nothing more. John took a nap on the bus but Sherlock forced himself to stay awake even though he'd been awake all night long making the passports. He didn't want to miss their stop.   
  
“Wake up. Look! _Airplaneth_ ,” Sherlock said, shoving John to make him stop sleeping.   
  
“Ohh,” John said, looking up at the planes in the air. He was awestruck. He'd be on one of those soon. “Do you think we can get a snack before the plane?” he asked.  
  
“Yeth, but firtht we have to get ticket tho we don't mith it,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Kay,” John said.

They got off the bus and walked into the airport.   
  
“British airwayth. That mutht be for uth,” Sherlock said. Both of them were British and they had British made passports. Everything was going exactly to plan.  
  
“Hello. Thethe are our pathportth and we'd like ticketh pleathe,” Sherlock said when it was their turn at the desk. He slid the passports up on the counter along with all the money he had taken out of his dad's wallet, save for £2 so they could buy sandwiches.   
  
“Sorry?” the woman behind the desk asked. She had to lean over the desk to see the two boys at the other side of it. The sight almost made her gasp but she managed to compose herself. _It's the boys from the news,_ she realised.   
  
“Ticketh pleathe,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Of course, sir,” the woman said. “My name is Carol. I'll have someone escort you to the VIP lounge.” She called for assistance.   
“Will there be snacks there?” John asked. He was so hungry.  
  
“I'm sure we can scrounge something up. Is there something you'd like?” Carol asked.  
  
“Strawberry juice box,” John said.

Carol only had time to nod before her colleague arrived to help her.

“Hullo, Carol. What do you need help with?” he said.

“These boys are to be taken to the VIP lounge. Hang on, I'm just finishing up their tickets,” she said. She had taken out her phone and was searching for an article she could show her colleague on the sly.   
  
“Ah, I understand. Not a problem, Carol,” he said, seeing the pictures of the two boys on the BBC website.   
  
“Here are their passports and tickets,” Carol said, handing over two tickets with nothing printed on and their homemade passports. “And the young sirs would like some snacks. Strawberry juice boxes if at all possible. Thanks, Kenneth.”  
  
“Not at all, Carol,” Kenneth said. He looked at the passports in his hand and then at the boys. It was hard not to laugh. “This way, boys,” he said.   
  
He lead them through to the staff room and sat them down on the couch. “I'm afraid we only have orange juice here at the moment. Is that alright?” he asked.  
  
“I thuppothe. But we are dithapointed,” Sherlock said. He was starting to slouch, the softness of the couch reminding his body how tired it was.  
  
“Oh, I understand sir. We give our sincerest apologies,” Kenneth said. He poured them each a glass of juice and took out the sandwiches he had brought for his lunch. “Please do enjoy our complimentary snacks. I'll return shortly with dessert.”  
  
“Dethert?” Sherlock asked, perking up for a moment.  
  
“Oh yes. I'll be back soon,” Kenneth said.   
  
He called the police, who in turn called the parents of the two boys. They arrived an hour later to find Sherlock curled up on the couch, fast asleep and John eating grapes and colouring, looking very happy.

“Boys!” Mrs. Holmes cried out. She started to cry and rushed forward, gathering them both in her arms. She was quickly followed by Mrs. Watson and Mr. Holmes.   
  
“Mummy?” Sherlock said.   
  
“Oh, Sherlock. Where have you _been_?” she cried.   
  
“Me and John are going abroad,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Do you have any idea how worried we've been?” Mr. Holmes said. Seeing his son and John had taken his breath away. He had feared the very worst; the two of them could get into so much trouble together.  
  
“What do you mean _abroad_? Why were you going abroad?” Mrs. Holmes asked. Sherlock was far too clever to answer that in front of the man they were running away from.  
  
Mrs. Watson was fussing over her son. She was checking for any sort of injury but found that apart from a light sunburn, John was fine. He even presented her with a drawing of an airplane. 

“ _John_ ,” Mr. Watson snapped. He had been standing in the doorway with the accompanying police officers, watching the scene with increasing anger. He strode forward and grabbed John's wrist to make him stop drawing. John looked up at him in surprise. He wanted to look away from his dad's angry eyes but he was too afraid to. His dad was squeezing his wrist so tight it hurt.   
  
“Daddy,” Sherlock whined. He didn't like what was happening at all.   
  
“You best let go,” Mr. Holmes said kindly. “I think you're hurting John there. You're much stronger than you think.” When Mr. Watson didn't immediately let go, Mr. Holmes wrapped his hand around his wrist. He wanted to yank it away from John but the risk was it would hurt the little boy. “ _Let go_ ,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
The police officers seemed to realise that something was wrong and came forward. “I'd suggest you let go of your son, Mr. Watson,” the taller one said. The authority behind the voice seemed to register with Mr. Watson and he finally let go.  
  
“Ah, good. Well, I think the boys need to finish off their sleep over at our house,” Mr. Holmes said. 

“But daddy! We're going abroad,” Sherlock whined.

“Maybe you can stay a few nights, John. We'll go to the zoo tomorrow,” Mr. Holmes said. He wasn't opposed to a little bribery to make Sherlock come quietly.

“Thoo? We're going to the thoo?” Sherlock asked.   
  
“Yes. We'll get ice cream,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
“Ithe cream? Okay,” Sherlock said.   
  
Mrs. Watson was stroking John's hair, not having said a word the whole time. She didn't now either. The Holmes' shared a look; how had they missed all this?

“Come on then, boys. We'll ride in a police car,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
“Wow!” John said excitedly.   
  
Mrs. Watson's eyes filled with tears. She hadn't seen her son look so happy in a long time.  
  
John got up and pulled on his backpack and took Sherlock's hand. He started to talk a mile a minute about what they might see at the zoo.   
  
“Zebras all like horses but they've got _stripes_ and the-”   
  
“ _Pathportth!_ ” Sherlock called out. He turned around and looked for Kenneth. “We need to get our pathportth back.”   
  
“Yes, of course,” Kenneth said. “I think it's best if I give them to your parents. For safe keeping,” he said.  
  
He had been hoping to keep them as mementos, but he handed Mr. Holmes the two homemade passports. “They're very important documents,” he said.  
  
“Yes. Christ almighty, Sherlock is clever,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
“I know,” Sherlock said.


	53. Two Passports - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts, so start from the beginning! =)

John was pulling Sherlock deeper into the house as they kissed, the back of his legs colliding first with the couch in the living room.  There was a frenetic energy behind their lips moving, their hands gripping varying parts of each other's t-shirts worn to the beach.  They two seemed to be clinging to one another, as if afraid that if their grip slackened even a little the moment would end, the bubble popped.  
  
But when John walked into the couch and their lips separated as they regained their footing, John and Sherlock's eyes flew open and locked on each other.   
  
"John," Sherlock whispered and John stared intensely at his face.  Sherlock's already plump lips swollen and pink from the kissing.  There was a flush in his face and his eyes were more wild than John had ever seen.  This was a new side of Sherlock that was all his, and John wanted to see how much more he could discover today.  
  
"Come here," John said softly, moving to sit on the couch.  Taking Sherlock's hand in his, he guided him down to sit beside him.  "We need to get a few things straightened out right now before we continue."  
  
Sherlock looked confused at John's reticent comment, hesitating slightly.  He wanted to keep kissing, tasting, and exploring John's mouth.  And John wanted to _talk_?  "Fine," he said briskly, wanting to get whatever conversation John wanted to have out of the way so they could resume the kissing which was making Sherlock feel very warm throughout his body, especially in his lower stomach.  
  
"Right," John said, steeling himself to say things.  "You know I'm not good at this sort of thing..." he began.  
  
"Oh, I see," Sherlock said in sudden understanding.  "You want to talk about emotions and feelings and things like that."  
  
"Well," John started, but then caught his lips twitching as he fought a smile.  "Yes, Sherlock. _Things like that._   So, what you said at the beach.  We're...boyfriends?"  
  
Sherlock nodded once.  "Yes, of course," he said.  "I thought that much was obvious.  We kissed, did we not?"  
  
"We did."  
  
"Yes. So I don't want to kiss anyone other than you.  Assuming that you do not want to either, then we will only kiss each other.  The easiest way to describe this is to use the label of boyfriends.  So we are boyfriends."  
  
"Right," John said, grinning widely.  "Alright."  
  
"I would say that we are dating, but because dating implies that the people in question go on _dates_ together, and you and I are not going to be able to do that until you've come home for good, I think dating is not an accurate description of what you and I are doing.  Boyfriends seems much more logical and steady.  Strong.  Sturdy.  Boyfriends."  
  
"Boyfriends," John agreed, fighting off the laugh that was threatening to break through.  For someone who just wanted to get back to kissing, Sherlock was certainly leading the conversation and being very verbose about it.  _He doesn't know another way.  Loves to hear himself talk.  Hell, I love to hear him talk._  
  
"Good.  Which brings us to the next issue you probably want to discuss," Sherlock said logically.  "Which would be sex and the physical continuation of our relationship.  There seems to be a natural progression of physical intimacy, starting with kissing, extending to touching, and culminating in the act of sexual intercourse."  
  
"Yes," John said, feigning ignorance, as if he were learning all of this for the first time.  His eyebrows were raised politely in an expression of keen interest.  "I would imagine that it would.  Does that seem like something you would be interested in?"  
  
"Sex?" Sherlock asked.  "Yes, very much.  Ordinarily, based on the research of done and the things I have observed through your failed relationships, there is a certain amount of time that generally passes between each milestone.  A number of dates, a level of mutual trust and affection.  Things like that."  
  
"Research?" John asked, ignoring the guilty squirm his stomach gave about Sherlock basing his knowledge on John's _failed relationships_.   
  
"Yes, John," Sherlock said, in exasperation.  "Of course I researched this."  
  
"Of course," John agreed.  "Why wouldn't you?"  
  
Sherlock ignored this comment and continued.  "The act of sexual intercourse seems to be something which people place a large amount of importance and try to make _the moment_ , as they call it, as perfect and romantic as possible, which I believe can only make it not live up to the expectations the people in the relationship have.  That being said, when we decide that we want to move on to the most physically intimate part of our relationship, we should probably try to attain _the moment_ as perfectly as possible.  I believe I will be able to eliminate all of the factors that would lead to it not living up to our expectations while also creating a very romantic atmosphere.  Being that Paris is widely considered to be the most romantic city in the world (though that comes almost purely from movies and television and pop culture in general), we will travel there.  We will need our two passports and, unfortunately, probably a favour or two called in from Mycroft in order to secure us-"  
  
"Sherlock," John said, chuckling now.  "Just stop for a second and listen to yourself.  You're building up the moment already instead of letting it happen naturally.  You're planning it too much.  It will be fine when it happens.  More than fine.  Really."  
  
"Is it Paris?" Sherlock asked.  "Would you prefer to be somewhere else?"  
  
"I don't fucking care where we are when it happens," John said simply.  "I just care who it happens with."  
  
Sherlock was quiet for a few seconds.  "Me?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," John said.  "You."  
  
Sherlock smirked.  "Good.  So then when can we progress from kissing to touching?"  
  
John shook his head.  "You're thinking too much about this, Sherlock.  You need to just let it-"  
  
"John, you know my methods," Sherlock interrupted.  "You know that I need to think and know so that I can calculate when to-"  
  
But Sherlock was promptly shut up by John's lips pressed against his as the shorter man hovered over the tall detective, guiding him down so that Sherlock's back was now on the cushions of the couch, John lying down over him.  "Just shut up, Sherlock," he growled between kisses.  "And let it happen as it _happens._ "  
  
"It's happening now, isn't it?" Sherlock asked eagerly, his hands moving to the waistband of John's bathing suit.  
  
"Get your lips back on mine and we'll _see what happens,"_ John growled again as their lips and tongues moved in tandem again, a desperate need and hunger propelling their actions. 


	54. Two Passports - Anne

 

“Remember your passport,” Sherlock whispered, throwing John’s things in the bag they had open on the bed. John was bruised and bloody, but the young genius wasn’t thinking about John’s injuries at the moment. He was thinking about getting his best friend free. 

 

“Where are we going, Sherlock?” John asked in a broken voice, tears still staining his face although the desperate leaking had stopped. 

 

“Paris. My parents have a house there.” 

 

“I… don’t have money for a ticket.” 

 

“I’ll buy you a ticket.” 

 

“Sherlock…” 

 

“Two passports. That’s all we need.” John would be safe. Sherlock would make sure of it, and right now that meant getting the other boy on a plane to another world, an entirely new place where no one could get to him, not even his cruel father. Part of him knew that freedom would be short lived. But freedom was freedom, and what was temporary now would be permanent soon. 

 

“Are you asking me to run away with you?” John teased weakly, face still inhumanly pale. Sherlock thought he looked like he was going to be sick. 

 

“Something like that. You’ll like Paris.” John just stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy and red from crying. “It will be okay.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand when he was done packing up everything he thought the boy would need, and dragged John out into the night.

 

John was a rugby player; muscular and powerful, agile, and in excellent control of his body. And yet, he couldn’t ever seem to get in a single punch when his father beat him. Sherlock’s rational mind had never had any luck understanding, and he had never worked up the courage to ask; the young genius ended up attributing John’s odd behavior to sentiment. That was the only reasonable explanation for why the typically brave boy was broken and shaking as he fled his own home.

 

When the boys got back to Sherlock’s house, Sherlock tucked John into his bed, and settled down on top of him for the night. 

 

“We’ll leave in the morning. Promise.” 

 

“I’m pretty happy right here, actually,” John murmured, relaxing back into Sherlock’s bed. He was finally coming down from the state of frenzied panic that accompanied pretty much every interaction with his father. Things were moderately better now that he was with Sherlock, though. John particularly loved being held; Sherlock knew it. 

 

“Is that so?” 

 

“Yes, your bed smells like you… It’s nice.” 

 

“Might just be that I’m on top of you.” 

 

“Might be…”

 

"I can move if you’d like so you can check.” 

 

“Don’t you dare.” 

 

Sherlock drifted into a fitful sleep, rocking into the mist of rest by the steady sound of John’s breathing. 

 

When Sherlock’s alarm went off at 4am, he woke John with a gentle shake and pulled him out into the cool fog of early morning. They would have to reach the airport quickly, before anyone noticed they had disappeared. Sherlock knew that Mycroft would find them within the next 24 hours, and that once Mycroft knew, their situation would get more precarious. He just hoped that his older brother wouldn’t say anything to their parents or the authorities for a few days at the very least. 

 

The airport was fairly empty, mostly populated by sombre looking businessmen and airport employees. Luckily, no one stopped them as they made their way from the street  outside to their gate. Sherlock bought two tickets. No guards came to take them away. Sherlock and John went through security. Neither of them were attacked by a taser and taken into a holding cell free from the eyes of the public. Sherlock and John walked down the ramp and into their plane. The ground didn’t open up and suck them down to the deepest pits of hell. Surprising. Sherlock was almost sure his older brother had some influence in those spheres. 

 

The feeling of relief was even more powerful than the feeling of surprise. They were really going to do this. They were really going to get away. And Sherlock wasn’t going to just stop running. They would spend the night at his parent’s house, and then they would be off, into the vast expanse of world that awaited them. 

 

Once they were in the plane, John went back to sleep with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder; Sherlock watched, protectively guarding his best friend for the entirety of the flight. It was lunchtime in France when the two boys arrived, and the weather was fine. A bit hot, but Sherlock wasn’t complaining about predictable summer heat, not when they had successfully executed his ingenious plan. 

 

John started crying again when he took his first step into the airport. He spun around wildly, ears thick with the sound of foreign tongues. French. He was in France. With Sherlock Holmes. He was safe. For a moment. 

 

“John, what’s wrong?” Sherlock demanded, his voice becoming higher pitched as he fought off new pangs of anxiety. 

 

“Sherlock… Everything is just fine.” Of course everything was fine. Even if it was only for a moment, Sherlock had set him free. And John knew it would be Sherlock who was going to save him.


	55. One jacket/rain poncho - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: One jacket/rain poncho!

“I told you you should have worn a rain poncho,” John said.   
  
Sherlock refused to acknowledge that John was right, despite the fact that his jacket was soaked through and heavy on his shoulders. John didn't understand. John could wear a rain poncho at school and still be _cool_. Sherlock couldn't leave himself open to unnecessary attack. He had to wear his expensive jacket and not the stupid yellow rain poncho John was wearing or he'd be teased more than he was.   
  
“You're going to be sitting in your wet clothes all afternoon because you didn't listen to me,” John said. He was enjoying being right; he didn't get to be very often when it came to Sherlock.

  
Sherlock didn't appreciate being teased with the fact that he'd been wrong. He had to put a stop to it. “No I won't. As soon as we get there I'm taking all my clothes off. And I'm putting them on your bed to dry. You know what will happen then, John?” he asked.  
  
The smirk on John's face had slipped off and he gaped like a fish as he tried to think of an answer that didn't involve any truth whatsoever. Sherlock must never know the truth. “No?” he said. He hoped Sherlock was too caught up in whatever he was thinking to notice anything odd with John.

 

“Your bed will get wet and you'll have to sleep in it all night,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Oh,” John said. He took an audible sigh of relief before he could stop himself.   
  
“What?” Sherlock said. Why did John suddenly look so much more relaxed? Had he missed a more awful retaliation?  
  
“What? Nothing,” John said quickly. He realised he was supposed to have argued and protested. “Don't do that,” he said. His eyebrows drew together when he cringed. That hadn't been a very good protest.  
  
“ _Don't do that_ ,” Sherlock repeated back. He could usually count on John for a proper argument if nothing else.   
  
“Yeah, you heard me,” John said.   
  
“Your come back to that was _don't do that_?” Sherlock said. “Really? That's the best you could think up? I think that yellow thing you've put on has brought your intelligence down a few notches, John. I'd take it off if I were you.”  
  
“Yeah? Maybe I might. Then we'll both be naked in my bedroom,” he said. His body froze and recovered within the span of a second, making his leg jerk in midair. He had not meant to say the last part. A heat began to spread from his neck up. _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ he thought. He couldn't hide that he was getting flustered and the fact that he was blushing made him blush even harder.  
  
Sherlock looked at his friend and tried to work out what was happening. John was blushing. He looked like he wanted to kick himself, and he was walking faster with indicated that he wanted to get away from Sherlock. But why? What could cause this reaction? Obviously it had been the last thing he'd said, but why would that embarrass him when it was a joke? 

  
_It's not a joke_. _He wants to be naked with you_ , Sherlock realised. This time it was Sherlock who did a funny little misstep. He rechecked his mind for any other possibility but he couldn't find one that made sense, and once he had eliminated the impossible whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth.   
  
“Yes, we will be,” Sherlock said. He had waited too long. The sentence may have provided comfort to John if it had been said earlier but the seconds of silence that Sherlock had taken to work the puzzle out in his mind had left John plenty of time to throw himself into a well of despair and humiliation.  
  
And so, John didn't have anything to say. He kicked a pebble that lay in his way.   
  
“We will be,” Sherlock said. He didn't know how else to say that he was interested in return.  
  
“Alright, okay,” John snapped. He didn't want Sherlock to keep rubbing it in.   
  
“No, John. You misunderstand me. We _will_ be,” Sherlock said.   
  
Again, John momentarily lost control of his body.   
  
“Yes, that's right,” Sherlock said with a smile. John was a little slow, perhaps, but he got there in there end.  
  
“We will be?” John asked.  
  
“Well, I very well can't stay in these wet clothes, John. You informed me of that,” Sherlock said.   
  
And he didn't.  



	56. One jacket/rain poncho - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is using these prompts to write one long story. Check out the previous chapters first if you haven't!

"John," Sherlock said impatiently, between their kisses.  "Touching."  
  
John felt his face warm from both frustration and building arousal.  He quickly thought through the situation in his head.  He wanted to touch Sherlock, wanted Sherlock to touch him.  Besides, when Sherlock was adamant like this, there was nothing that could be done to get him to redirect that stubborn mind.  "Fine," John said, giving in.  "There can be touching."  
  
"Excellent," Sherlock replied, his long and nimble fingers moving immediately to the tie of John's swim trunks, making short work of the knot that was there.  Sherlock paused and looked up at John with an arched eyebrow.  "Are you not also going to touch me?"  
  
"Oh," John said stupidly.  He had stopped breathing, stopped thinking, and his entire body was focused on what it would feel like to finally have Sherlock's fingers wrap around his cock.  "Right, sorry," he added hastily, his brain catching up to him.  John tried to undo the knot on Sherlock's bathing suit, but his head was too focused on what was beneath the fabric that his fingers kept fumbling on the tie.  
  
"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock huffed, moving his own hands impatiently to the tie.  Swiftly, the knot came undone and Sherlock looked at John.  "Continue."  
  
John narrowed his eyes and couldn't stop the thought that even with this, with sex and being intimate (something which, as far as he knew, Sherlock had no experience with), Sherlock took the reigns.  He would need to put a stop to that.  Sherlock Holmes could boss him around at a crime scene, but in the bedroom, John Watson would take control.  
  
 "You're too bossy," he said, his hands trembling slightly as he tugged down Sherlock's bathing suit as Sherlock lifted his hips from the couch so that they could be pulled down.  John's eyes focused on Sherlock's cock as it sprang up once the bathing suit had been lowered enough.  The moan that formed would have been embarrassing, but John was too far past the point of caring.  "Jesus," he whispered.  "Sherlock..."  John felt his own cock twitch impatiently in his swim trunks.  He needed Sherlock's hand on him.  "Go. Take them off me.  Now."  
  
Sherlock looked up at John, eyes wide at the direct order.  It was forceful and, for a reason Sherlock could not describe because of the lust that had taken the place of oxygen in his bloodstream, incredibly sexy.  "Yes," he whispered, following the orders and pulling down John's bathing suit.  Sherlock's eyes widened even more when he saw the size of John's cock, far larger than he would have thought, given John's below-average height.  "John, you're..."  
  
"Yeah," John said, feeling smug.  "You're not so bad yourself."  
  
"Shhh," Sherlock hushed as his eyes roamed over every inch of it that he could see from where he was.  His brain was working furiously to try and collect as much data as possible, committing it to memory in Sherlock's mind palace so that the image could be perfectly replicated when Sherlock closed his eyes in the future.  He needed to feel it, needed to add the sensation of touch to his data.  Slowly, Sherlock reached forward and his long fingers began to stroke John's cock lightly, feeling every vein and ridge and smooth surface.  "Extraordinary," he said to himself.  
  
John, meanwhile, was lightheaded with the absence of oxygen in his body, a consequence of holding his breath and forgetting that his lungs needed air.  All at once, his body snapped, and his desire to get his hands on Sherlock took hold of every other impulse and thought.  John reached down and took Sherlock's cock in his hand.  There was a fast intake of breath from Sherlock below him.  Their eyes locked and Sherlock nodded.  Slowly, John began to pump Sherlock's cock as Sherlock's fingers wrapped around John's and did the same.  
  
There was no sound between them except for uneven and rather loud breathing, and the occasional soft moan.   
  
The lack of noise was far too loud and deafening for Sherlock, who was focusing on that instead of on what was happening between them.  
  
"You've stopped talking," he said to John, his voice huskier than usual.  
  
"Yeah," John grunted as his hips rolled into Sherlock's hand, his own continuing to wank Sherlock.  "I wonder why."  
  
"Keep talking," Sherlock said, needing some sort of background noise before he began to over-think his own actions, knowing that it would ruin the moment for John.   
  
"About what?"  John's tone was one of exasperation and disbelief.  
  
"Anything.  Something not really of importance, so what you usually say will work fine."  
  
John ignored the insult and wracked his brain (which could only think of both his cock and Sherlock's at the moment) to try and find something to talk about.  He heard the soft pitter-patter of rain on a windowsill and said, "It's raining."  
  
_Good_ , Sherlock thought, as he slightly tightened his hold on John's cock, earning a moan of pleasure.  _Perfect._   "I can hear it."  
  
"It sounds like it just started," John said, though voice voice was breathy.  He mirrored Sherlock's touch and took a tighter hold on Sherlock.  
  
"It will barely be wet outside."  
  
"Probably.  Still need a jacket though."  
  
"I disagree.  The rain is too light."  
  
"Fine," John huffed, pushing his cock into Sherlock's hand and moaning again.  "You don't have to wear one.  I will."  
  
"Fine," Sherlock whispered, his hips rolling up and into John's hand as his breath hitched in his chest.  "Or you can wear a poncho."  
  
"Sherlock," John groaned, as his body began to heat up.  He was getting closer to coming.  "There is no way in hell I'm going to wear a poncho."  
  
"Why?" Sherlock questioned, his breathing increasing.  His voice was soft, almost a whimper, as he felt a tightness in his groin.   
  
"Because I would look ridiculous."  John stopped talking to breath in deeply, but that did not help to impede the oncoming orgasm.  It had the opposite effect and John began to breathe quickly, his hand moving quickly over Sherlock's cock, the way he wanted his own to be stroked.  
  
Sherlock acquiesced to John's unspoken request and began to move his hand quickly.  "You never look ridiculous.  Except in your holiday jumpers."  
  
"Oh, you-" John started but his head clouded over.  Nothing matter except what was happening on that couch.  "Fuck, Sherlock," John moaned, knowing he was dangerously close.  But he would not allow himself to finish before Sherlock.  The experience needed to be as perfect for Sherlock as possible.  "Come.  Come for me," John whispered.  
  
"What?" Sherlock asked, his voice pinched as his body prepared itself.  
  
"You heard me," John growled and he tightened his hold and furiously pumped John's cock.  "Come for me, Sherlock Holmes.  Come _now._ "  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said, giving in and following his orders.  His body shook and he let his head fall back as he moaned loudly, his cock pulsing in John's hand as he came harder than he could ever remember.  "John!" he moaned, and the sound of his own name sent John hurtling over the edge as he came over himself and Sherlock.  
  
"Sherlock," John moaned loudly, his entire being feeling the release of years of pent-up sexual frustration.  The orgasm rocked his body and before he had even finished coming, John collapsed on top of Sherlock, burying his face into the detective's neck, his hips still jerking as they collided with Sherlock's stomach.   
  
Again, the room was silent except for heavy breathing between them as they tried to regain the ability of coherent thought.  This time, however, the silence did not bother Sherlock.  His mind was blissfully silent and satiated.  This was a quiet he did not want to disturb. 


	57. One jacket/rain poncho - Anne

“I will not wear one,” Sherlock pouted, looking at the ugly red rain poncho John had left by the door.

 

“Sherlock, it’s pouring down rain. At least grab a jacket.”

 

“No way.” 

 

“Fine. Don’t.” 

 

John grabbed one of the ponchos in exasperation, donning it with a sigh and letting Sherlock lead the way to Lestrade’s crime scene. 

 

They spent the day chasing a murderer (and catching a murderer), quickly scarfing down a dinner of greasy Chinese food, and collapsing into bed (separately, of course).

 

As far as John was concerned, everything was well in the world, as it always was after a case Sherlock and John had been working on concluded successfully. John was deliriously happy, dangerously happy in the respect that he knew it was going to be hard for him to cope when things weren’t so good again. It would be especially hard for him to tolerate Sherlock’s snapping and cruelty; especially difficult for him to accept the inevitable distance between them after so much closeness.

 

But John’s happy daze was cut short that next morning by a loud, distressed moan from downstairs. 

 

“John… Help…” 

 

The doctor groaned, but he answered Sherlock’s call, tumbling out of bed and stumbling bleary-eyed into Sherlock’s room.

 

“What, Sherlock?” 

 

“Dying…” 

 

John blinked, working some of the sleep out of his eyes, and attempting to process what Sherlock had just told him.

 

“You’re not… dying. What’s wrong?” 

 

Another moan blossomed from Sherlock’s lips and John shuffled over to the bed to get a closer look at his partner in crime(solving). Sherlock’s face was pale and his lips were bright red, hair was sticking to his face, and a pained expression dominated the typical coldness of his face. 

 

“Ah. You’re sick…” John lay a hand to Sherlock’s forehead, determining that the other man did indeed have a fever and deciding that Sherlock would definitely need to stay off his feet for a few days. Whether that would actually happen or not was unknown; it would depend upon how convincing John was (and how thoroughly he pampered the attention-loving genius while he was sick).

 

“Let me get you tea and something to bring down the fever. I told you to wear a jacket yesterday.” John chided, but he chided gently. It was clear that Sherlock felt like shit and John knew it would be plain redundant to punish someone who was already suffering. So instead of being withholding, he cared for Sherlock attentively all day, obediently fulfilling the other man’s demands, and even making demands of his own. Sherlock had to eat, Sherlock had to drink, Sherlock had to take periodic cold showers.

 

It was late that night when Sherlock started feeling better. He was still weak and tired, a victim to the illness, but at least his fever had broken. John sat with him, feeding him ice cream, laying wet cloths to Sherlock’s head, and providing him a reasonable amount of entertainment so that he wouldn’t succumb to the need to work on a new case before he was fully recovered. 

 

“I want a case.” 

 

“Sherlock, go to sleep…” 

 

“Give me a case.” 

 

“I’m not entertaining enough for you?”

 

“Are you dead?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then no.” 

 

“Aw, how sweet, Sherlock. I love it when you’re sweet to me."

 

John climbed into bed with Sherlock after a second, laying on his side so he could observe Sherlock’s expressions. Sherlock ignored him completely, until John scooted a few centimeters closer.

 

“You’ll get sick,” Sherlock warned, but he knew it was pointless to try to scare John away. John was worried about him, after all, still in panicked doctor mode, and Sherlock knew it would take a cuddle at the very least for John to regain his composure. 

 

“Don’t care.” John’s mutter was barely inteligible, but Sherlock could imagine that John was simply dismissing his concern. 

 

“I’m okay, John. Really. I feel much better.” 

 

“Yes, I know, you git. I spent all day making sure of that.” A bit defensive, but still sweet. 

 

“Going to sleep in here tonight?” Of course John was spending the night by Sherlock’s side; Sherlock could get worse and John would need to be there to make it all better. 

 

“Yes…” 

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good or bad?” 

 

Sherlock paused, staring at John with a smile that he couldn’t help. Good. Very good. Sherlock loved it when John slept in his bed. 

 

“Fine.” 

 

“I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

 

“That’s never stopped you before.” 

 

“Fucking wanker.” 

 

“Spend the night with me,” Sherlock insisted. John grinned like a fool, face blushing so much that he hid it under the sheets in embarrassment. 

 

Sherlock sneezed loudly, and John wiped his nose instinctually, which only made them both break into awkward  laughter when John realized how unnecessarily he doted over his Sherlock. 

 

“Next time I tell you to wear a jacket, you’ll wear a bloody jacket.” Sherlock tilted up his chin defiantly his eyes still watering from sneezing, and John wiped his eyes and pushed dark curls out of Sherlock’s face. 

 

“Will not.” 

 

“Will too! I hate it when you’re sick. It makes you… clingy.” Sherlock chuckled in derisive amusement, hoping that it was perfectly clear who was clinging on whom. He had to assume John saw it. Hell, it was almost worth it getting sick to receive this type of attention from his best friend. 

 

“I love you,” Sherlock said with a wide smile, leaning back on his bed with a deep sigh of relief. John’s face morphed into the very picture of shocked panic and then he was kissing Sherlock passionately, his entire body shifting to rest on Sherlock’s. 

 

“What—what is going on?” The detective was taken aback and shot up to seated, blinking rapidly and trying desperately to process what had just happened. That was _not_ what he had expected. Not in the slightest. 

 

“You said… I… Bloody Christ… Sorry…” A small cough broke the silence as John attempted to alleviate the tight feeling in his throat. What had he done? He had misunderstood one little thing from the most confusing man in the entire world and now he was going to lose his best friend, his flat, and quite possibly his sanity. His dignity was long gone, riding off into the sunset with the last vestiges of his closely held hope that Sherlock was capable of having romantic feelings for him. 

 

Sherlock looked over John cautiously, his eyes flashing and his heart jumping wildly in his chest, and then Sherlock kissed John back, smashing their lips together with bruising force. 

 

John Watson woke up the next day with a frankly terrible cold. Oddly enough, he didn’t mind.


	58. Summer Picnic -Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Summer Picnic!

“John, do you really intend for us to sit on the ground and eat like this?” Sherlock said, looking at the blanket John had laid in the grass in Regent's Park and the paper bag of boxed up food.  
  
“Yes, I do,” John said. He sat down on the blanket and waved for Sherlock to join him.  
  
“This is hardly dignified,” Sherlock said once he'd sat down and had struggled to gather his long limbs into a position that didn't make him look like an overgrown child.  
  
“It's fine,” John said. The happy mood he'd carried with him since waking that morning was starting to dissipate with Sherlock's unhappy comments.   
  
“No, it's really not. There'll be ants in the food and I hope you're not thinking we're going to eat with our hands, John, because I can tell you now that I will not. It's unsanitary. John, you're a _doctor_ , surely you understand how viruses and bacteria work. They're all over our hands and you want us to put our hands directly on our food without washing them first? It's a miracle you're not sick more often when you're so lacking in hy-”  
  
“Stop talking. I have cutlery. Of course we're not going to eat with our hands. _No,_ I said stop talking,” John said. He had to stop Sherlock now before he really got himself fired up, if he hadn't already.   
Sherlock had been about to keep talking but began to sulk instead. John took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was what Sherlock was like. He knew that. He knew that very bloody well. He shouldn't have expected anything different. He started to take out the boxes of food from the bag and organise it on the blanket. 

 

“Mrs. Hudson made us a chicken salad. She put some bread in here, too, but you don't have to eat that if you don't want to use your hands,” John said. Despite his efforts not to be, John was feeling annoyed. He had wanted a nice day out in the park and had managed to forget who it was he was dealing with in the process of his fantasies.   
  
Sherlock made no move to serve himself, but waited imperiously where he sat. He entertained himself by people watching. It was a rather nice day, weather-wise. And Mrs. Hudson's chicken salad was always good. Sherlock might have been able to enjoy himself had John not been in such an insufferably good mood in the morning. It had put Sherlock right into his first sulk of the day. Oddly enough, it had seemed to put John in an even better mood. In Sherlock's mind they had spent the morning trying to out-mood the other and now it seemed he was winning.   
  
“Here,” John said in a much milder tone than Sherlock had expected. Where was the vitriol? The annoyance? He'd worked so hard all day to _win_.   
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said. He wanted to bite his tongue off. He had been _polite._ He had meant to be rude and the type of obnoxious that made John frown in held back anger.   
  
“You're welcome,” John said, smiling. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back and John's smile widened.   


Sherlock grunted in return and forced himself back into a darker mood. He picked at the food for a few minutes before putting his plate down. “I want to go home,” he said. He didn't really mean it.   
  
“We just got here,” John said.   
“I want to go. I know you're prone to stupid ideas that you romanticise for reasons I cannot fathom, but this must be the result of some sort of psychotic break,” Sherlock said.   
  
_Yes, it must have fucking been to think that I could take you out here for a perfect afternoon_ , John thought. His temper rose quickly. “Alright, have it your way. Let's go,” he said. He quickly stood and stuffed all the boxes of food back in the paper bag. He put it to the side and leaned over and grabbed the blanket and tugged on it. “Get off it then so I can pack it up and we'll go home,” he said. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him at all. “ _Sherlock, you wanted to go so let's go_ ,” John said. He was almost yelling and still Sherlock didn't respond.   
  
When John had leaned over to grab the blanket, a little box had fallen out of his pocket. It had been completely unlike any of the boxes of food that had been packed away. It was black and velvet. Clearly a jewelery box. A jewelery box John had brought with him to a romantic setting.   
  
He had really ruined it this time. John had planned a proposal. Sherlock picked up the box and held it up for John to take and said, “I think you should sit back down and we should continue this... date.”  
  
John snatched the box from Sherlock hand. He had kept it hidden for days and it felt all wrong that Sherlock had seen it. He put it in his pocket and glared at Sherlock, whose expression had softened into a hopeful looking shock.   
  
“ _Please_ sit down, John,” Sherlock said ever so softly. He wanted to be presented with whatever was in that box. He wanted to accept it and then parade around with it, showing everyone how John Watson, the best man he had ever known, had chosen _him_ out of all the people in the world.  
  
“Alright,” John said. He smoothed out the blanket and sat back down.  
  
“Well?” Sherlock said.  
  
“Well what?” John said.  
  
“Aren't you going to do it?” Sherlock said.  
  
“Do what, exactly?” John said.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said.  
  
“No, I'm not. You've mucked it up. It'll have to be another time. I'm not going to perform on cue,” John said.  
  
Sherlock lips fell open with a little gasp. John couldn't be serious. He simply could not seriously be expecting Sherlock to _wait_.   
  
“I'm not,” John said. And he didn't. He took to keeping the box in the inside pocket of his jacket, clearly visible to Sherlock and then he made him wait three torturous weeks before taking it out again. It was, perhaps, a little out of the norm to propose at a scene of a murder, but John had watched Sherlock spouting one brilliant thing after another while pacing around with his coat billowing out looking like a Byronic hero and he hadn't been able to wait any longer.  
  
Sherlock stopped his deductions long enough to say yes. 

 


	59. Summer Picnic - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts, so check out the other chapters first if you haven't already =D

After a few steadying breaths, Sherlock reached his clean hand up and began to stroke John's head.   
  


"Your hair," he said softly.  "It's much shorter than it was when you left."  


"Yeah," John mumbled, his face still buried in Sherlock's neck, deeply inhaling his scent.  "I had to cut it for the army.  Regulation and all that."

"I assumed as much."  


"Do you...not like it?" John asked, genuinely curious.  It felt foreign to him to be able to have this sort of conversation with Sherlock, where they could be open and honest about what they found attractive in each other.  "It'll grow back."  


"Of course it will," Sherlock said.  "It is a biological function.  I don't mind it short though." 

"But it isn't your favourite," John said, sussing out Sherlock's comment.   


"No, it is not," Sherlock conceded.  "I am partial to longer hair on you and the way it frames your face and when you smile, it makes you look rather adorable."

John pulled back and looked at Sherlock.  "Adorable?"  


"Yes, John.  Adorable."

"Not devastatingly handsome and sexy?"

"You possess those qualities as well, but the longer hair makes you adorable."  


John kissed Sherlock's neck again to hide the smug smirk on his face.  "I'll have to remember this."

"What?"

"That after you get off, you're nice and you compliment me.  I'll have to make sure to keep this in mind when you're an insufferable arse."  


"I will not fight you," Sherlock said, laughing softly and shaking both of their bodies.  "However, I do think we should probably shower and clean ourselves off before dinner."

"Yeah," John said, as he forced himself to stand up, his knees feeling slightly weak and wobbly.  He fought the urge to ask Sherlock if he wanted to shower together.  _Small steps,_ he thought.  _Let it happen on its own_.  "We'll order takeaway?"  


"Yes," Sherlock said, sitting up on the couch and looking positively wild with his hair pointing in every direction.  "I know just the place."

"Oh, this is a pleasant change," John said, feigned surprise on his face.  "You? Taking the lead and ordering us food?  Usually you tell me it's my job and then complain that it isn't good enough."  


"Well," Sherlock said with a shrug.  "I figure you know so little about this town that entrusting you to choose our dinner tonight would be disastrous, if not completely catastrophic."  


"Of course," John said, rolling his eyes.  "You take care of it then.  I'll go wash your come off of me."  He smirked at the sentence, disbelieving that this was now their reality. That he had both his own come _as well as Sherlock's_ on his body.   


 

It was an hour later when John and Sherlock were digging into their Italian food, spread out on a blanket in the living room. 

"Really?" John asked.  "A picnic?"   


"Well, I thought it was romantic," Sherlock said, a hitch to his voice. 

"It's no Paris," John teased as he helped himself to spaghetti.  "But, I just wouldn't think Italian food to be very picnic-y.  It's a bit messy."  


"Fine," Sherlock snapped.  He made to move to close the containers of food, but John stopped him.

"Sherlock, I'm just giving you a hard time," he said with a small laugh.  "It's different and irregular, but I really wouldn't expect anything else from us."   


"We are different and irregular?" Sherlock asked, pouring out two cups of wine.  He had insisted they not use actual glasses to give it more of an authentic picnic feel, so he was filling two large plastic cups with red wine.   


"Somewhat," John said with grin as he put some spaghetti on Sherlock's plate.  "Shame it's raining or we could have had an authentic picnic outside on the back lawn."

"Something we can still accomplish assuming the weather improves before we return to London."

"Meatballs?"

"Yes."

"This is a nice touch," John said, holding up the plastic cup of wine.   "I feel like this is just a case of getting sloshed and it being more acceptable."  


"Because it is not classy?"

"Exactly."

Sherlock and John shared knowing smiles as they both drained their cups in one gulp and Sherlock immediately poured them each a second glass after they had finished.   


"I enjoyed before," Sherlock said, not meeting John's eye.  "What occurred on the couch. It was rather pleasant.  It was a nice release."

"Yeah, it was," John agreed, his cheeks feeling warm.  He knew it was not from the wine.  


"Not because it had necessarily been a while since I've gotten off..." Sherlock said, his sentence trailing off.

"No?" John asked, looking up.  "When was the last time, then?  Was it on your own?"  His stomach clenched as he waited.  _You cannot get angry if it was with someone else.  Look at the women you paraded through the flat.  He wasn't yours before.  His past is-_

"Yes, it was on my own.  A few days ago."

John looked quickly at Sherlock, his heart hammering in his chest.  "Oh?  What inspired it?"

Sherlock became very busy in his spaghetti and mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like the word _shorts_.  


"What was that?" John asked, a mischievous smile on his face.

"Shorts," Sherlock said.  "You look good in shorts.  Do not ask for more beyond that."

Very pleased with himself, John popped half a meatball into his mouth.

"What about you?" Sherlock suddenly asked.  "When was the last time you...took care of business on yourself?"  


John nearly choked on his meatball.

"Took care of business?" he asked after taking a long sip of wine to help clear his throat.

"Yes," Sherlock said.  "Is that not an appropriate phrase?"  


John looked at Sherlock in awe.  "No, but I like that.  And it was...a few days ago as well.  After the ice cream incident."  His face turned the same colour of deep red as the sauce that was covering his food.  


"Oh yes," Sherlock said in agreement.  "The orgasm after the ice cream incident was rather good for me as well."

Both Sherlock and John caught each other's eye and giggled sheepishly before continuing to eat their dinner and drink their wine, feeling rather pleased about their current situation. 


	60. Summer Picnic - Anne

“Yoohoo! John!” Mrs. Hudson danced towards the approaching man and the little girl hanging to his hand. It had been almost three months since she had seen head or tail of John Watson, but she hadn’t overstepped her boundaries. They all knew he needed space. After all, everyone dealt with grief differently and John was no exception. If he wanted to hole himself up with his toddler and pretend he didn’t have people who cared about him so deeply it hurt, then he could do so. 

 

Mrs. Hudson only regretted how badly John’s isolation was hurting Sherlock. 

 

She gave him a quick hug and her most motherly smile to his little girl (dreadfully upset that she couldn’t seem to remember the girl’s name), before retreating to one of the picnic baskets to get them both food. This was the first time John had been out in a long time; she wasn’t going to smother him like she so desperately wanted to, but she was certainly going to give him a plate of the best food she was capable of procuring and she was going to make sure he had Sherlock. Because Sherlock fixed John. That was what the unruly detective did. 

 

When her boys saw each other, Mrs. Hudson could swear she saw tears gathering in both sets of eyes and a mutual need for human connection emerge from hibernation. Sherlock hugged John first (to Mrs. Hudson’s surprise), and John stood like a statue in response before melting into Sherlock’s arms. They stood for a moment in silence, and then the little girl pulled on John’s arm, breaking her boys apart. Mrs. Hudson tsked to herself, sorry that the moment of reconciliation had ended so unceremoniously, but it wasn’t over. Sherlock took a step back, looking over the new presence with an unnerving thoroughness, and then he squatted without a second thought, whispering something into the ear of John’s daughter (Elizabeth, was it?) and smiling kindly as she began to giggle. 

 

Hm, Mrs. Hudson hadn’t known that Sherlock was good with kids. Maybe her plan wasn’t destined to failure after all. 

 

John lifted his daughter over his head and then held her against his side, sidling closer and closer to Sherlock until the detective slipped his hand into John’s back pocket affectionately. They looked so happy together. It was almost as if Sherlock had never jumped, John had never gotten married, and Mary had never fallen in front of a bus. Of course, all of that had happened, and Mrs. Hudson knew it was all just under the surface, hiding in the wrinkles on John’s forehead and the lines around Sherlock’s eyes. 

 

Aging. The past years had taken their toll on her boys in ways she knew she would never understand. But she could see them healing. Slowly. Surely. They wouldn’t have even been hurt if they had listened to her in the first place and simply become a couple initially. Of course, Sherlock and John had both thought they knew better. 

 

Mm, lovely. John fed Sherlock some potato salad right off of his plate and Sherlock made a face, earning another happy laugh from the child. Things were going well then. A touch here, a glance there… And then John was softly brushing his cheek against Sherlock’s and pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s hair line, just barely touching soft curls. 

 

The attention was so loving, so sweet, that Mrs. Hudson couldn’t help but pull Greg Lestrade aside and point out the cold man so softened by John’s love. Sherlock looked like a human being. In fact, he looked like a man on a date with someone he was intensely in love with. And John wasn’t complaining. In fact, he was showering the lonely detective with gentle caresses and furtive stares into Sherlock’s pale eyes.

 

And that was why not a single member of the picnic was surprised when John gently kissed Sherlock’s lips, or when John’s daughter comfortably climbed into Sherlock’s lap and tugged on a rogue curl.

 

Everyone stood and watched, paralyzed by the way Sherlock and John’s interaction played out, and then suddenly they returned to their food and their conversation and their lives. Just like that, the novelty was gone… Mrs. Hudson should have known. People moved on, drifting off into the humid haze of endless summer, except for Sherlock and John, who remained frozen in a single moment, suddenly infinite in the fog of long awaited love. 


	61. A Trip to the Zoo - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: A trip to the zoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I did a little continuation of my Two Passports story on this as I mentioned them going to the zoo in that one and well.... this prompt happened =D

“John, wake up. We're going to the thoo!” Sherlock said. John was fast asleep next to him after their airport adventure the day before.  
  
“Don't want,” John mumbled, trying to curl up to protect himself from waking up.   
  
“John, the _thoo_ ,” Sherlock insisted.   
  
This time what Sherlock was saying registered in John's mind. _The zoo_. They were going to _the zoo._

 

When Mr. Holmes came down in his slippers and robe, the boys had already been sitting at the kitchen table, dressed and ready to go, for two hours.   
  
“Excited?” he asked, smiling at the two of them. Sherlock looked cross with impatient excitement while John looked anxious.  
  
“Why aren't you drethed, daddy?” Sherlock demanded. Why did his dad have to be so slow?   
  
“Because it's not even gone seven in the morning, Sherlock. The zoo isn't even open yet,” Mr. Holmes said. “We'll have a nice breakfast and then go.”  
  
Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and started to pout.   
  
“None of that now, Sherlock. We'll eat breakfast and watch some telly,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
“Cartoons?” John asked. He liked cartoons.  
  
“Yes. How does that sound?” Mr. Holmes asked.  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock said. He stomped off to the sitting room, with John hurrying after him.

 

Mr. Holmes' plan worked out the way he wanted. The boys had a proper, cooked breakfast in front of the television and then fell asleep, regaining some of the sleep they'd lost by getting up so early. He let them sleep until they woke up again. Surprisingly, it was John who opened his eyes first.  
  
“I have to pee,” he said, blearily looking around and mentally relaxing when he realised where he was.  
  
“Better go then,” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
John went. He was called back to the living room by the sound of Sherlock yelling out his name.

  
“John! John!” Sherlock yelled. “You made him go back to hith houthe and now we're not going to the thoo like you  _promithed_ _!_ ” he said to his dad.  He bitterly regretted going to sleep and losing track of where John was.    
  
“ We're not going to the zoo?” John asked. He had appeared in the doorway and Sherlock gasped audibly.   


“John!” he called, rushing forward and staring intensely at his friend. 

  
“Of course we're going to the zoo,” Mr. Holmes said. He was starting to see that separating the two boys again would be very difficult, if not completely impossible. He couldn't blame his son for being upset by the thought of John going back to his parents. It didn't sit right with him either.  


“And John is coming,” Sherlock said.   
  
“And John is coming. Go put your shoes on,” Mr. Holmes said.   
  
Sherlock took John's hand and pulled him to the hall and pointed at their shoes.  
  
“I _know_ ,” John said. He wasn't _that_ stupid. He knew what _shoes_ were.  
  
The ride to the zoo went off without a hitch. Sherlock refused to wear a seatbelt so he could lay with his head on John's lap and sleep a little more. Mr. Holmes allowed it and compensated by driving as slowly as he legally could. He hoped nobody would let Mrs. Holmes know about it.

 

John's head simply lolled back against the seat. Mr. Holmes wondered if he should have put going to the zoo off until the next day judging by how tired the two boys were. He realised quickly that it wouldn't have been good; Sherlock would have been very upset and it felt wrong to go back on a promise he'd made to John when the rest of his life  was unpredictable  and unstable.   
  
“ Boys, we're here,” he said. Sherlock shot up.

 

“Thoo?” he asked, scrambling from the backseat to the front of the car so he could look out the front window.  
  
“Yes, we're at the zoo,” Mr. Holmes said. He couldn't understand why Sherlock was so very excited to be there. He hadn't shown any particular interest in animals before.   
  
Sherlock was out of the car and running across the parking lot before John had even got his seat belt off.   
  
“Sherlock! Be careful! Look for cars!” Mr. Holmes said. _What was I thinking bringing them here by myself?_ he thought.   
  
The morning passed in a blur of exhibits and no greater mishap than John spilling water down the front of his shirt. His lip had trembled in fear of being told off, but Mr. Holmes had just shrugged; the weather was so fine that it would dry on its own.

 

John relaxed and fawned over the tigers in particular and Sherlock grew very interested in the arachnoid exhibition.  
  
“Why do you like spiders?” John asked. He couldn't understand. They looks so creepy and crawley.

 

“Thpiderth are very utheful. They eat mothquitoeth,” Sherlock said. He hated being bit by mosquitoes. It itched so terribly.  
  
“Oh. I didn't know that,” John said. They stood together watching a Black Widow stretching out its legs. John couldn't help the goosebumps that erupted on his arms at the sight of it, but he had found a new appreciation for spiders.   
  
“You thouldn't kill them or you'll have a problem with inthecth,” Sherlock said sagely.  


Despite the success of the spiders, Sherlock looked a little downtrodden when they stopped for lunch.  
  
“Are you tired?” his dad asked, stroking his big hand through Sherlock's hair.  
  
“No, daddy,” he said.  
  
“What's the matter?” Mr. Holmes asked.  
  
Sherlock shook his head and his lip trembled.   
  
“Sherlock?” Mr. Holmes asked.

 

“There weren't any beeth,” Sherlock said softly. His lip trembled even worse when he had to admit his disappointment out loud. He had wanted to see bees more than anything in the world. 

 

“You wanted to see bees?” Mr. Holmes asked. He had to make sure he wasn't misunderstanding Sherlock's lisp.  
  
Sherlock nodded.   
  
“Oh. Well, you know, our house in Surrey is not far from a family of beekeepers,” Mr. Holmes said. His words had far more effect on Sherlock than he had thought.   
  
“Beekeeperth?” Sherlock said. He was already fidgeting with nervous energy. Bees were even more important than spiders. Mycroft had given him a DVD that talked about how bees were very important to make food and how they were disappearing from the earth.  
  
Sherlock looked so hopeful that Mr. Holmes texted his wife at once to see if she could organise some time off so they could all go to Surrey. The answer was a resounding yes and they fixed on a date the following week for the trip up.

 

“We'll see bees next week then,” Mr. Holmes said, looking up from his phone with a bright smile.  
  
“And John ith coming?” Sherlock said. He sounded so unsure and determined at the same time that Mr. Holmes had no doubt that Sherlock would refuse to go if John didn't come with.   
  
“If he'd like to,” Mr. Holmes said, turning to John.  
  
“Yeth, he'd like to,” Sherlock said. He was looking at John in an accusing way; surely his best friend would want to come along to see bees. “Beeth, John,” he said.  
  
“Yes, I want to,” he said. He didn't want to see the bees. The bees sounded scary. But he did want to keep staying with the Holmes family. Even if it did include bees.


	62. A Trip to the Zoo - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts, so check out her other entries first if you haven't!

John and Sherlock were almost finished with their second bottle of red wine and their dinner forgotten when John made the request.  
  
"No," Sherlock said vehemently.  He was trying very hard to keep his lisping tongue in check.  Now that he knew the power and the effect that it had on John, it was not something he wanted to unleash frequently and have it lose its potency.  "Absolutely not."  
  
"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John said, elbowing him playfully in the ribs.  His cheeks were rosy from the wine and he found his mood to be exponentially increased from the buzz through his body.   
  
"No," Sherlock said, forcefully.  "Especially not after what happened last time."  
  
"Last time?" John asked grinning wildly.  "You mean when I found that perfect picture of you dressed up for Bastille Day?"  
  
"Unacceptable.  We are not going to go through the photo album again.  I would burn it, but the wrath of my mother would be something fearsome to behold."  
  
"What if I promise not to tease you at all?" John asked.  It would be a great sacrifice on his part, but it would be worth it in order to see the pictures in the album of a young Sherlock.  Had John been in a sober state of mind, he would have immediately recognised the easy solution: wait until Sherlock was upstairs and asleep and then go through the albums at his leisure (leaving, of course, that one pesky teenage summer with the pictures of Victor on the shelf).  However, all John wanted to do at that moment, and the only thing that made even the slightest logical sense, was to go through the album _with_ Sherlock and have him explain the story behind each photo.  And it was paramount that it needed to be done at that moment.  There were no exceptions.  
  
"Can you even manage that?" Sherlock asked coolly.  Based on John's eccentric behaviour after seeing the Bastille Day picture, the brilliant detective doubted whether John would be able to keep his cool when he saw some of the photographs that he knew his mother had in those albums.  His mind fell primarily on the younger years when Sherlock refused to wear a bathing suit when he went to the lake and played in the water fully naked.  
  
"Of course, I can!" John said indignantly.  "I am _offended_.  I take _offense_.  Just because you dressed up and singing is one of the funniest things I've ever seen-"  
  
"No photo album," Sherlock said, with finality.   
  
"No!" John cried out dramatically.  He moved towards Sherlock and wrapped his arms the detective's torso.  "Let me try and persuade you."  John moved his head to Sherlock's neck and began to press quick and soft kisses to the skin there.  "Is this working?"  he asked, changing the kisses to something a bit more sensual.  
  
Sherlock wanted to protest and refute the very clever argument that John was making in the form of neck kisses.  Surely, if he were sober, he would come up with something, but John's lips were making a very good point.  "Fine," he said, giving in.  "But if you make fun of me at all..."  
  
"I won't," John said eagerly, pressing on last quick and playful kiss to Sherlock's neck before popping up off the ground and bolting towards the shelves with the photo albums.  "Now... which year would be a good year?"  Choosing one at random, John plopped himself back down on the floor next to Sherlock.  "Let's see what treasures are in this one, yeah?"  


Sherlock was feeling a bit trepidatious as John opened the album.  His stomach did a flip when he saw the age of himself looking up from the pages of the book.  He remembered that summer, when he was four.  More than that, he knew that one of his mother's favourite stories to tell came from this album.   


John was giddy.  "How old are you here?" he asked in wonder, seeing a photo of a sulking Sherlock cross his arms at a museum while Mycroft held himself tall, clearly setting the example for what a dignified Holmes should be doing at such an important institution.   


"Four," Sherlock replied.

"Oh come on, Sherlock," John said, bumping his shoulder against Sherlock's and taking a swig of wine directly from the bottle.  "Loosen up.  _Enjoy_ the _moment_."  John was definitely feeling the alcohol, as his words and movements were far more exaggerated than they had been just twenty minutes earlier.  "Look at how much of a ponce Mycroft looks.  He's _huge_.  How much did he weigh back then?"  


"I'm not exactly sure," Sherlock mused.  "How much does a whale roughly weigh?"

John almost spit out his wine as he laughed. 

That broke Sherlock's tension as he became engaged with what John was looking at.  Passing the bottle back and forth between them, he regaled John with anecdotes about each picture, explaining why his father was covered in mud and why Mycroft was wearing that apron, and why the bathtub upstairs was filled with various soil samples as a dirt-covered Sherlock stood beside it, beaming proudly.   


John turned the page and tried with all of his might not to laugh.

"Go ahead," Sherlock said, waving his hand airily in permission.  John seized the opportunity and began to shake with hysterics.  They had reached the Holmes's summer trip to the zoo and there was Sherlock, standing beside the lion's cage, looking ferocious and baring his teeth.  Or, he would have, rather, had he not been wearing a homemade lion's mane out of yellow and orange construction paper.   


"Did you-"  John tried to get the words out between laughs, but it was almost impossible.  "Did you make that yourself?" he managed to croak before he dissolved into another fit of giggles.  


"Yes," Sherlock said.  "I went through a phase that summer where I was infatuated with lions.  As a treat, my parents took me to the zoo.  Mycroft was dragged along and pretended to be bored, but I think he was empowered by the weight of the hippopotamus that we saw and decided to model his own appearance after it."  


They laughed in unison and John looked at the other pictures from the trip to the zoo.  There were countless photographs of Sherlock imitating every animal there, while still wearing his lion's mane.  John could not remember a time when he had been so entertained.  He stood up and, continuing to laugh, moved into the kitchen and opened another bottle of wine.  


Sherlock was looking at the pictures when John returned.  "My mother loves telling this story," he said, holding out his hand to take the bottle, immediately taking swig of it.  "Because I came home that day and continued to make all of the animal thoundth... _sounds."_ Sherlock heard the lisp and immediately tried to correct it, but it was too late.  John had heard, and John pounced.  


"Animal _what?_ " he asked devilishly, taking back the bottle of wine.  "Say it again." 

"Sounds," Sherlock said, focusing intensely on the movement of his tongue.  "Animals thou- _sou_ nds."   


"God, you're sexy," John said in a growl.  He moved forward and drunkenly captured Sherlock's lips with his own.  "Make those _animal thoundth_ for me now, gorgeous."

Sherlock began to kiss back, ferociously.  He made a growling noise in his throat.

"Close," John said.  "But you need to sound more like a lion."

Had it not been for the sheer amount of wine he had consumed, Sherlock never would have done it.  He was spurred on by the passion is John's lips and words, and let out a roar like a lion, albeit a drunken one.  


As Sherlock went through the animal kingdom, sounding like an elephant, growling like a bear, and hissing like a snake (though it came out as a _hithhhh_ because of the lisp), John found himself falling more and more in love.  The lisping snake pushed him over the edge as he launched himself at the tall detective and they began to passionately kiss...for about ten minutes until they fell asleep curled up together, drunken happy smiles still lingering on their faces.


	63. A Trip to the Zoo - Anne

Sherlock was terrible with relationships and he knew it. His only other significant relationship, that had been with with Victor Trevor, had ended in what Sherlock had no choice but to describe as devastating heartbreak. 

 

He had no reason to ever date anyone ever again. Ever. But here he was. On a date with one John Watson, the most attractive bloke he had had the pleasure of spending time with since his first year at school. 

 

Getting a call from a school acquaintance in the middle of the summer had surprised him; in fact, he had been so surprised that he had given into Stamford’s insistence that he at least give John Watson one date. Apparently John was a close mate who had privately admitted that he was attracted to men as well as women, and Stamford had thought it was a good idea to set them up. 

 

Why was still unclear, as all of Sherlock’s other dates always ended in disaster. He suspected that Stamford was just a stubborn moron.

 

John hadn’t thought it was such a great idea either. Not in the slightest. But Mike had already arranged a date with someone named Sherlock Holmes for the weekend. Lovely. 

 

His intuition had been correct. So far, the date had been the most terrible dating experience of his life. First of all, the zoo wasn’t exactly the most romantic location. The boys had already watched three lions having sex, had chimpanzee shit hurled at their faces, and had a child accidentally smash a strawberry ice cream cone into John's shirt. 

 

Sherlock had been nice about it. Naturally. He had even purchased John a new shirt while the unfortunate bloke had been vainly attempting to clean himself off in the bathroom. John thought it was a nice change from the insulting coldness of the first half of their date. 

 

The icy twat sat on the sink and watched John change, leaning back on his hands and smirking like a minx. John didn’t know what he thought about that. To be honest, it sort of made him get hot under the collar. Weird, right? No, not weird… 

 

Because he liked men. Because he had always liked men. Fuck, he was screwed… Who was this Sherlock Holmes? Was he going to tell people they had gone on a date together? What was it like kissing a bloke anyway? Or bloody going to bed with one for that matter? The whole situation made him uncomfortable. Hell, if his parents found out, his father would beat the shit out of him. Possibly kill him.

 

But this Sherlock bloke was bloody hot. And brilliant. And interesting. Even if the date was going terribly so far and Sherlock was impossibly rude. 

 

“Thanks for the shirt… Do you want to get some lunch?” John asked warily, waiting for Sherlock to swat his proposal away with some witty remark about the state of his stained shirt. 

 

“Ah, you don’t want to get more excrement thrown in your face or watch various animals procreate?”

 

“Um… no, I’m good for the moment.” 

 

Sherlock paused, looking at John uncomfortably before speaking again, more seriously this time. 

 

“My apologies.” 

 

“For what?” 

 

“For… this. In retrospect, I think maybe going to the movies would have been a better idea.” 

 

“No, the zoo is… great. Really,” John insisted in his most persuasive voice. "I’ve only ever been a few times. It was always a big deal when my mum would take me and my sister when we were growing up. I just… this is weird for me.” 

 

“Going on a date? Unusual for me as well.”

 

“No,” John laughed, color rushing to his face. “No, no… I go on dates. Lots of dates. Just never with men.” 

 

“Oh.” Sherlock ran a hand through his hair with nervous energy, leading the way past some hippos and to The Jungle Cafe, where he ordered them both a safari cheeseburger and some wildfire fries. “So… you’re not gay. You’re not interested.” 

 

“I didn’t say that.” 

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“Sherlock, you seem like a nice guy.” Sherlock scoffed in disbelief, sniffing his food suspiciously and then picking at it with a distasteful look on his face. 

 

“Stamford’s a moron. After this… meal I will consider our date concluded. You are free to return to your life.” 

 

“I don’t… Sherlock…” 

 

“No, really. It’s fine. I don’t _do_ this sort of thing. It was a bad idea. It’s clear you aren’t attracted to me.”

 

“That is not true!”

 

“Isn’t it?” 

 

“Sherlock, you’re hot, okay?!” Sherlock smiled smugly at John’s hasty outburst, reaching over the table to take a sip of the other bloke's soda. John was becoming very familiar with that look. God, it was hot… 

 

“I didn’t—I’m not— I’m so sorry… I can’t believe I said that… I’m  _really_ sorry.” 

 

“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock replied smoothly, trying to keep his cool, but blushing regardless. “Really fine.” 

 

“Oh, is it?” John scooted his chair closer to Sherlock at that, finally gathering up the courage to meet the other boy’s eyes. 

 

Was John flirting? It certainly seemed like he was flirting, but Sherlock couldn’t be too certain, not after the train wreck that was their afternoon together. 

 

“Yes. Fine. You are also… quite attractive.” Sherlock inched his face closer to John’s, biting the right side of his bottom lip anxiously before leaning in and bringing their mouths together. 

 

Luckily for both of them, while Sherlock wasn’t great at dating, he was an excellent kisser. 

 

And now he couldn’t seem to stop kissing John. He  _really_ couldn’t stop. 

 

John didn’t want him to. 

 

Moments later, John was even abandoning his burger (which was a big deal considering he hadn’t had a meal that wasn’t instant noodles or pancakes in a week) and whisking Sherlock into the Tropical area of the zoo, their hands tightly clasped together during their wild search for a secluded area. 

 

Fuck, if they were somewhere more private, John would be stripping Sherlock naked and devouring his body unapologetically. Given the current situation, kissing would have to do. It was probably for the best. 

 

After all, John was already departing far from his realm of past experience and into something completely new with the aggravating git whose lips were plump and red from being smashed against his own. 

 

“Excuse me? I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

 

“Hm?” John vaguely responded, opening his eyes and looking over at the intruder as he gave Sherlock another long kiss. 

 

“You’re disturbing the peace. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

 

“Have a problem with two blokes kissing?” Sherlock barked, voice confrontational and shameless. John cowered, wanting to sink into the earth and disappear. Probably. John wasn’t even sure  _he_ didn’t have a problem with two blokes kissing. And he was only mere moments into fulfilling repressed desires, and he had already been caught in the act; hell, he was already being forced to come to terms with what he had done. 

 

To his surprise, the security guard’s serious face melted into an understanding, but stern, smile.

 

“Of course not. This just isn’t the place for  _a_ _nybody_ to kiss like that. Kids around and whatnot… May I locate a motel for the two of you?” 

 

Sarcasm. Obviously. 

 

“Um… No, we’re fine,” John interjected before Sherlock could say anything else. Big mouth on his new… friend. John could already tell.

 

“My boyfriend can make the arrangements,” Sherlock added. Couldn’t stop himself from getting in the last word, could he? John chuckled at the way Sherlock turned up his chin dismissively and began to march away from the offensive rule enforcer. And then he realized what Sherlock had said and the playful laughter ceased immediately.  _Boyfriend_.

 

“We’re not really…?” 

 

“Going to a motel? No, I have a flat. Not too far from here. You picked me up from it. Remember?” 

 

“Boyfriends.” 

 

“Oh… Hadn’t really thought about it. I suppose that’s up to you.” 

 

“You would… be my boyfriend?” Sherlock scoffed, clearly offended by John’s question. 

 

“I thought I made my opinion on the matter perfectly clear.” 

 

“I would like that, Sherlock.” 

 

“Um… Fine. Good. You should probably move in with me.” 

 

“No… Nope.” 

 

“Too fast?” 

 

“Way too fast.” John grinned and gently wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist as they made their way to the zoo exit, planting the occasional kiss to Sherlock’s neck, which the other boy accepted happily. 

 

A few more weeks of this and maybe he would move in after all.


	64. Sunburn - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Sunburn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a continuation of the Passport and Zoo ficlets I wrote. But perhaps there will be for another prompt.

John rang the doorbell and waited.  
  
“Hi, is Sherlock in?” he asked Mrs. Holmes.  
  
“Hello, John! He is but I'm afraid he's unwell,” she said.  
  
“He's sick?” John asked.  
  
“Well, not really  _sick_ , but he stayed outside in the sun for too long  the day before and now he's got a bit burnt,” Mrs. Holmes said. 

 

 

It was an understatement. When Sherlock had woken up that morning, he'd been in so much pain that she'd called one of her doctor friends. Andthen she had proceeded to argue with Mr. Holmes about who bore the responsibility. She thought her husband was to blame because he'd had the main responsibility of the children in the afternoon and therefore should have applied the sunscreen, but Mr. Holmes thought she was to blame because she had the responsibility of the children in the morning and therefore should have got them ready for the day. 

 

 

They hadn't reached a resolution. Possibly because Sherlock had not stopped wailing since he woke up and they were all on edge. Mr. Holmes had reached some sort of breaking point ten minutes prior and gone out on a walk to get away but Mycroft had stayed close to his little brother. Mrs. Holmes had tried to put cool cloths on Sherlock's body but he had pushed her off, choosing to curl up in solitude on one end of the sitting room sofa. He had been crying for hours and Mrs. Holmes was becoming seriously concerned about dehydration.  
  
John looked sad. He didn't want Sherlock to feel unwell. He wanted to go out and play.   
  
“Maybe you should come back another day, John,” Mrs. Holmes said.   
  
“Oh. Okay,” John said. He looked even sadder. He had thought he'd at least be allowed in to play.   
  
“Bye,” he said. He turned and left with a vague plan of playing in the park by himself.  
  
But he didn't get very far.  
  
“John! John!” Sherlock shouted after him, running down the street with tears rolling down his cheeks. The way his skin stretched and moved with movement was excruciating but he had to get to John. His mother had told him that John had been at the door. Before pelting out the door, Sherlock had let a very rude stream of words come out his mouth to demonstrate how vile he thought the action of not letting John in had been. It had shocked Mrs. Holmes so much she had gasped and Mycroft had told him off. Sherlock hadn't cared. He'd barely heard it because he was halfway out the house.  
  
John turned and saw a very red version of his best friend.   
  
“Sherlock!” he shouted back. He looked a little less sad.  
  
“John! Don't go home. We can go to my room,” Sherlock shouted. He stopped running now that he and John were close enough to communicate through yelling.   
  
“Okay!” John shouted back. He closed the gap between them in a run and gaped at how much redder Sherlock looked close up.   
  
“Does it hurt?” he asked.  
  
“It hurtth tho much,” Sherlock said. He had stopped crying when John had stopped walking away but he started again now.   
  
“You look really bad. Do you want to play doctor?” John said. He was excited by the prospect and his tone showed as much.  
  
Sherlock sniffed. He wasn't in the mood for games but John might leave if they didn't play. “Yeth,” he said.  
  
“Okay. We're in the ambulance now so we have to go to your house to get to the hospital,” John said. He started to make siren noises and they hurried back to Sherlock's house.  
  
“Nurse! Get out of the way, my patient has to lie down!” John said to Mycroft when they got into the sitting room.  
  
“Nurse? Patient?” Mycroft said, his face the image of disgust.  
  
“I'm the paithent, you're the nurthe and thith ith the hothpital bed. _Move_ ,” Sherlock said.   
  
“No,” Mycroft said.  
  
“Mikey,” Mrs. Holmes said. If something was about to cheer Sherlock up she wasn't going to have Mycroft stop it.  
  
Mycroft looked at his mother in outrage. He was far too old and clever to be playing games like this.   
  
“Nurthe Fatcroft! Doctor Watthon needth your athithtanthe,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Holme said.   
  
“Thorry. Nurthe Mycroft,” Sherlock amended.   
  
“Fine,” Mycroft said. He vacated the couch and Sherlock laid down on it, wailing as the fabric of it scratched on his raw skin.   
  
“Nurse! Get me a cool cloth and two juice boxes at once!” John said.   
  
Mycroft sighed and walked off to the kitchen, stopping off at the jar of biscuits to help himself to one.   
  
Mrs. Holmes followed him and provided him with a cloth to wet. ”Bring some biscuits for the boys, too. Sherlock needs to eat something,” she said.   
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and grabbed a handful of biscuits before going back to the sitting room. He was met with a scene that made him ache with affection; Sherlock was holding John's hand tightly and John was petting Sherlock's unruly curls. It was the first time all day that he'd seen Sherlock look remotely calm.   
  
“Here,” Mycroft said.   
  
John took his hands off Sherlock to accept his doctoring supplies and Sherlock scrunched up his face in misery immediately.   
  
“Shh,” John said. He expertly pushed the straws into the juice boxes and put one to Sherlock's mouth.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. Mrs. Holmes, who was watching from the doorway, felt her heart sink in her chest. She had hoped maybe John could cheer Sherlock.  
  
“Doctor Watson says,” John said.  
  
Sherlock frowned and then opened his mouth. He had agreed to this game, he had to follow the rules.  
  
“Have some,” John said.  
  
“I don't _want_ to have thome,” Sherlock said with the straw still in his mouth.  
  
“ _Some_ ,” John said.   
  
Sherlock's frown deepened but he sipped. Once.  
  
“More some,” John said.  
  
Sherlock huffed but started to sip and didn't stop until the straw slurped at the very last drops of juice loudly.   
  
“Good. That was your medicine. You need more medicine,” John said. He put a biscuit to Sherlock's lips.  
  
Sherlock didn't bother to argue. He opened his mouth and ate the biscuit. Mrs. Holmes silently clapped her hands.   
  
“That'th nithe medithine, Doctor Watthon,” Sherlock said. It didn't at all taste like the penicillin he'd been forced to have another time when he'd been to see the doctor.  
  
“Yes. I should know because I'm the doctor,” John said. He placed the cool cloth on Sherlock's forehead and started to pet his hair again.   
  
“You're a good doctor. Fatcroft ith a bad nurthe. I bet he ate all the medithine,” Sherlock said. He giggled. He had calmed down so much that he was half way off to sleep.   
  
John giggled, too. “Can I borrow your colouring book?” he asked.  
  
“Yeth. Jutht don't ruin my beeth,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Okay,” John said.   
  
“I'll get it for you, John,” Mrs. Holmes said. She didn't want Sherlock to get upset again by John leaving, even if it was just for a short amount of time.   
  
By the time she returned, both the boys were asleep; Sherlock with his thumb stuck in his mouth and John with his face planted into the couch cushion.   
  
“Like Thelma and Louise,” Mrs. Holmes said, shaking her head.   
  
“Bonnie and Clyde,” Mycroft said.   
  
“What?” Mrs. Holmes asked.  
  
“Oh. Nothing,” Mycroft said. Maybe it was too early for regular people to see what he saw.


	65. Sunburn - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on these prompts so check out the other entries first if you haven't yet!

Sherlock was on fire.  There were flames encircling him and he frantically looked for an exit from them, an escape route.    
  
"John!" he called out, looking for him through the dancing fire, but there was no one to be seen. Everything was closing in on him, the heat getting closer and closer as the flames licked at his skin.  He was going to burn.  He was going to be burned alive.    
  
There was no other option.  Sherlock was going to need to try and run through the fire.  Surely, the fire could not go on forever.  There would need to be a break in the flames at some point.  Bracing himself, Sherlock hurtled forward.  
  
He awoke with a start, sitting up sharply, vaguely aware of another mass beside him in the brilliant morning sun streaming in from the windows. Sherlock could still feel the flames on him, only now there was a throbbing ache behind his eyes. His heart was racing in his chest. 

 

John was awake instantly with Sherlock's movement, his army training kicking in and detecting danger or a break from tranquility. "Sherlock? What is it? What's happened?"

 

Sherlock took in deep gulps of air, clean air. There was no smoke. There was no fire. There were no flames. But still, the heat persisted. Still, everything burned. 

 

John sat up and looked at Sherlock, ignoring his own hangover, and his eyes widened. "Shit," he whispered. "Sherlock, your skin..."

 

Those were not the words Sherlock wanted to hear. /The fire,/ he thought wildly, his head still groggy from both sleep and wine. His first thought was to extinguish the fire spreading across his skin. His subsequent action was to frantically pat out the flames moving up his arms. 

 

Sherlock cried out in pain. 

 

"What are you doing?" John shouted. "Sherlock, are you mad? Calm down! That's only going to aggravate your sunburn!"

 

  
_Sunburn,_ Sherlock thought in dawning comprehension. Of course. That was why his skin felt like it was in fire. It was. Well, in the figurative sense, of course. As this realization came into his brain, so did an abundance of pain. 

 

"John," Sherlock whined. "How did this happen?"

 

John frowned as he examined the redness that spread across every inch of the ordinarily pale expanses of ivory skin. "Did you not reapply your sunscreen at all at the beach yesterday?"

 

Sherlock was quite for a few seconds. "Ah," he said. "That implies there was an initial application of sunscreen to begin with."

 

John's outrage was as predicted. John was always so obvious with his reactions. 

 

Furiously, John stormed into the bathroom, opening cabinets and drawers until he found a small bottle of aloe. He dropped it at Sherlock's feet. "You're the biggest idiot I have ever met."

 

Sherlock frowned up at him. "Aren't you going to apply it for me?" he asked. "You are my doctor after all. It could be kind of sexy. Spreading the aloe over my skin?" He gave what he thought was a non-negotiable seductive look. 

 

"No," John said, resolutely. "You want to act like a stubborn child? I'm not going to be persuaded by anything you say. You can put it on yourself." He turned and left the room. 

 

Sherlock would slowly count to ten in his head. If John did not return by then, he would reluctantly put on the aloe himself.  Slowly, he began to count. 

 

He only had to count to four.  He tried not to look too smug.


	66. Sunburn - Anne

Dr. John Watson, I am texting to regretfully inform you that I cannot make our date tonight. SH

I’m sorry to hear that. Is everything okay? JW

I have a thing. SH

Oh. Okay. Maybe tomorrow? JW

I’m afraid I can’t then either. SH

Right. JW

You know, you could have just said no if you didn’t want to go out with me. JW

 

John had been excited to see Sherlock all day. He had showered slowly, combed out his hair, and laid himself out on his bed with the best expectations in regards to the date to come. He had even taken a long nap to make up for the nightshift he had worked in the emergency room the night prior. After all, it wasn’t every day he was going out with a mad genius he had met and taken a fancy to in the ER. (Luckily, Sherlock had only had a sprained wrist, and not a terminal illness.)

 

And Sherlock was wonderful. A brilliant, fit, endlessly intriguing genius who was crazy enough to solve crimes with Scotland Yard for  _free_ because of a seemingly endless source of independent wealth. Wonderful, right? 

 

Well, it would have been wonderful if they were actually going out. 

 

Next weekend. SH

You aren’t just saying that because it seems like a long time from now, are you? JW

Mm, that seems like a long time to wait? SH

Yeah… JW

 

  
_John was charming_ , Sherlock thought with a smirk, rolling over in bed carefully. Maybe saying he had a  _t_ _hing_ wasn’t the best excuse as to why he couldn’t go out with the stubborn doctor, but the truth was so pathetic that he couldn’t bring himself to admit it to someone he liked so much. Sherlock was moving their date on account of a sunburn. And it wasn’t just an appearance thing, although he didn’t like the idea of looking like a lobster in front of John Watson, but also a pain thing. Every movement made his skin feel like it had been doused in kerosene and lit on fire.

 

No, I’m not just saying that. I was looking forward to tonight. SH

But this thing came up? JW

Something like that. SH

Alright… I can make allowances for “things.” JW

Excellent. SH

You’re not going to tell me what the thing is? JW

[No reply]

Okay, sorry… Personal. I get it. JW

 

John wilted at Sherlock’s indifference, at his secrecy. Plus, the doctor also just really hated being ignored. But Sherlock just seemed like that type of bloke. The type to blow him off, insult him, ignore him, and otherwise ruin the vague outline of a life he had planned out for himself now that he was home from Afghanistan. Maybe John would cancel the next date before Sherlock could get around to it. He could only take so much bullshit, after all.

 

I have a sunburn… SH

What? JW

I’m canceling because I have a sunburn. SH

How bad? JW

Quite. SH

Are you okay? JW

Yes, of course. SH

But not okay enough to go out with me? JW

No… SH

Am I allowed to come over? JW

 

Sherlock smiled, feeling embarrassed and hot and pampered by John’s concern. Did he want the other man to come over? Yes, absolutely. John was a doctor. John would make him feel better. At the same time he had a feeling that the circumstances were a bit not good. They were going to have their first date at Sherlock’s apartment? John was going to watch over him because he had gotten a bad sunburn like a moron? Interesting. 

 

You don’t have to. SH

I want to. JW

I’ll even give you my invaluable professional advice as a physician. JW

Fine. 221B Baker Street. SH

On my way. JW

 

And with that, John sped over to Sherlock’s flat, leaving work only to get a new patient. One that was entirely his own. 

 

“Jesus, Sherlock…” The detective’s entire back was a bright red color that extended down his thighs and legs and up his neck. 

 

“What?” Sherlock was a bit uncomfortable with this whole thing now that he had had time to think it over. Well, now that he had realized that getting examined by John meant taking his clothes off. He should have seen that coming… 

 

“I haven’t seen a sunburn this bad in a long time. Does it hurt?” Sherlock shrugged non-committally in response, wincing as his skin of his back shifted. “How did you even get this?” 

 

“I was working a case that required me to be undercover at the beach.” 

 

“Ah, I see. And you neglected to put any sunscreen on your incredibly pale skin?”

 

“I wasn’t expecting to be outside that long.” 

 

“What happened? An exciting twist in the case? Complications?” 

 

“No. I solved the case. Um… I unexpectedly fell asleep.” 

 

“You fell asleep at the beach with no sunscreen on when you were supposed to be undercover?” 

 

“Precisely.” 

 

“And here I thought you were a genius.” John replied to Sherlock’s dirty look with a smile so brilliant that Sherlock swiftly dissolved into laughter. The fiasco at the beach was admittedly not one of his greatest moments as an unstoppable crime solver, but he hadn’t slept in a couple days and the sun had felt so nice on his back… “Alright, you moron,” John added cheekily, breaking Sherlock out of his daze. "I’ll take care of it for tonight, but I definitely get to pick the next date.” 

 

In retrospect, Sherlock was pretty pleased with himself. One date and John was already spending the night with him.


	67. Camera Phone - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Camera phone

Camera/Camera phone

 

John was on the train. Finally. He had been waiting for this moment to arrive since  he and his friends had booked the tickets to go to Plymouth. They always did for special occasions;  Birthdays, Easter, that time they had all passed a fucker of an exam. This time it was to celebrate they all had a few days off work. There was no better place to let off steam for future doctors than a university town with cheap bars and a sense of tradition. It was a tradition of getting completely plastered for a day or two, but it was a tradition nonetheless.   
  
He took a breath of relief when the train started to move. He had barely got on in time. He imagined his friends' reaction had he missed the train and delayed the start of their festive weekend even by a few hours. He was glad he didn't have to suffer through Rob's loud whining, Mike's quiet assurances of “it's fine, I'm sure it was an honest mistake,” while looking at him like they both knew he was smarter than miscalculating the time he needed to get to the train station.

 

The worst would have been Victor's texts to him. They'd been best friends since the start of medical school three years prior and had grown attached at the hip. They were just friends. Just friends, despite the fact that they had spent the better part of a year giving each other drunken blow jobs whenever the mood struck them. It didn't really mean anything. It was John exploring his sexuality and both of them getting some well-earned relief. They were best friends. Brothers.  
  
John made his way down the aisle until he came to his seat. He had been hoping to have a row to himself but someone was sitting there. At least he had the window seat.   
  
“Excuse me. Sorry. That's my seat there,” John said. The other passenger looked up from his book and John felt like he had been knocked back several steps.  
  
The man was gorgeous. Curly, brown hair. Piercing eyes that he couldn't determine the colour of. Cheekbones that were so prominent that John's first instinct was to touch them.   
  
“Oh,” the man said, sounding bored. He moved his legs slightly to the side to let John through.   
  
“Thanks,” John said. To his dismay his voice sounded a little pinched. The man's voice had resonated through him like he'd been sitting on a speaker with the bass turned all the way up. 

 

John shuffled past, trying not to think about how close his arse was to the gorgeous man's face. He hoped it would go unnoticed.

  
It didn't. The man definitely looked as the obviously muscular arse moved by his face and he wondered if it would be terribly against social niceties if he were to press his face into it. He smirked at the idea and very determinedly got back to reading.   
  
John settled down and texted Victor that he was on the train. He very quickly got a text back that conveyed happiness and enthusiasm through the excessive use of emoticons. John laughed softly to himself and leaned back in his seat.  
  
He chanced a look to his right to look at the gorgeous man beside him. He was very careful about it; no one in the world knew about his attraction to men besides Victor. It wasn't that he was ashamed of it. It was more to do with wanting to avoid questions and assumptions.   
  
John couldn't quite believe how good looking the man was and he wasn't about to let that face fade into a memory. He still had his phone in hand so he decided to put it to good use.  Ever so casually, John shifted in his chair so he was leaning against the window. He pretended to play on his phone, lifting it up and pointing it at the man's face. He should have remembered to turn off the flash. And the sound.   
  
When both went off in the  gorgeous man's face, John was sure he had never experienced anything so horrible.   
  
“ No,” he  breathed.  _Why_ had he done that? What force had compelled him to be the biggest  _collossal idiot_ that  had ever walked the earth?   
  
“ No? Judging by the placement of your body and the guilty look on your face your intention was, in fact, to take a picture of me. Is something wrong with it? Am I blinking? I am sorry, I didn't expect there to be a flash. Or a sound. If you were trying to be sneaky, you did very poorly,” the man said. 

 

The smug look on his face was almost too much for John, who was blushing a brilliant red.  
  
“I'm so sorry,” he said.   
  
“Not at all. Want to try again?” the man asked.  
  
“No. Sorry. Sorry,” John said. He straightened in his chair and leaned heavily back into it. Hopefully the man would get off soon and he could start to pretend that  _that_ had never happened. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the man out of the corner of his eye.   
  
_Just pretend you're somewhere else_ , he thought. He did. He was on an entirely different train, going in an entirely different direction and the passenger next to him was an entirely different person. It worked well and John relaxed.

 

Which he shouldn't have done. He had been studying long hours the past week and had missed out on a lot of sleep which his body decided to catch up on.  
  
He awoke an hour later, his head resting against someone's shoulder and his arm wrapped around that someone's waist.   
  
“Mmm,” he hummed. It smelled nice where he was and it was warm. Who was he dating again?  
  
 _No one_ , he remembered. His eyes snapped open and he saw the seats of a train in front of him and a pair of legs with expensive looking trousers on.  
  
“No,” he whispered. He straightened himself, forgetting to lift his arm, which made his hand rub over the gorgeous stranger's stomach.   
  
“Good evening,” the man said.   
  
“I am,” John said, “So sorry.”   
  
“You need not be. You gave me a good excuse not to get off the train and be forced to go to a horrible ' _family weekend'_. I must thank you,” the man said.  
  
John couldn't tell if the man was kidding or not.  
  
“You're... welcome?” he said.  
“Yes. I am. I am eternally in your debt. But I find myself without plans. What are yours?” the man said.  
  
“My- what?” John asked.  
  
“You're obviously going on a short trip. A night away. Two at the most. I am interested to know if I may join you. I think it has well established that you are attracted to me and I find myself reciprocating the attraction. May I join you?” the man asked.  
  
“I-” John said. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. The attraction, the humiliation the first time, the humiliation the second time, and somehow he was still about to pull the most attractive man he had ever met.  
  
“Yes?” the man asked.  
  
He was staring so intensely at John that John didn't know if he was aroused or scared.   
  
“Plymouth with my mates,” John said. He sounded rather breathless and he realised that yes, he was definitely aroused. And with the realisation the atmosphere changed drastically and quickly. It was loaded.   
  
“You're going to kiss me,” the man said, sounding a little surprised.   
  
“Shut up,” John said. He was smiling. He was definitely going to kiss him.

  
He rubbed a thumb over one of the tempting cheekbones and then cupped his hand behind the man's head. There was no resistance when he pulled and their lips met.   
  
The man nearly crawled into his lap as the kissed. The brushes John felt against his groin could have been accidental but he suspected they were not, especially as they were coupled with an increase in pressure of lips.  
  
They kissed until they had to break apart for air.   
  
“What's your name?” John asked, panting and looking a little rumpled.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said.  
  
“I'm John Watson,” John said.  
  
“John. I am coming with you,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yeah. Okay,” John said.  
  



	68. Camera Phone - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on these prompts. So you know, check the others first if you haven't!

"I thought that would have been sexier," a very disgruntled Sherlock said. He was fearing nothing but his pants, standing awkwardly with his arms akimbo and his legs posed shoulder width apart. His skin was glistening with aloe covering every inch of and patch of red from the blazing sun the previous afternoon.  
  
"Well, you were wrong then, weren't you?" John said, standing back and looking at Sherlock's figure, trying to keep a straight face. "This is what happens when you don't take care of yourself."  
  
"The aloe," Sherlock complained, scrunching up his nose. "It feels sticky."  
  
"I have no sympathy for you," John said, his eyebrows raised and his face impassive. "You brought this upon yourself."  
  
"But how can we do anything physically if I'm covered in-"  
  
"Sherlock!" John said in exasperated disbelief. "We are not doing anything with your sunburn as bad as it is. You thought you were on fire.  _Actual fire_. If I were to-"  
  
"I will be fine," Sherlock said stubbornly.  
  
"The hell you will," John said, irritably. "This isn't up for negotiation. I will not be responsible for causing your physical pain."  
  
The two glared at each other before John leaned back and smiled. "You know what I think I want do right now?" he asked, his voice playful and teasing.  
  
Sherlock pales at the tone, or he would have if his face weren't the colour of a tomato. "I'm sure I do not want to know. So do not do whatever you're planning."  
  
But John was undeterred. Innocently, he moved into his bedroom and pulled his phone out of his bag. Sauntering back into the living room, John grinned at Sherlock like the Cheshire Cat.  "Smile wide for me!" he said as he held up his phone and prepared to take a picture.  
  
"No!" Sherlock called out, but it was too late; John had already taken a few photos in quick succession.  "Delete those," Sherlock said, his voice low and seething, his eyes dangerously fixed upon the phone John was sliding securely into his pocket.  
  
"Sorry, John said. His voice was overly cheery as he flashed a dazzling smile at Sherlock who was looking more and more miserable by the minute. "Can't help you. That would ruin everything."  
  
"Everything?"  
  
"Oh, yes," John said conversationally. "I think we need to make our own photo album, you see."  
  
Sherlock blinked. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Oh, I think you heard me."  
  
"Yes, and I am giving you the opportunity to revise your statement."  
  
"No," John said, still smiling wickedly. "I don't think I will."  
  
Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Why on earth would you want to make a photo album?"  
  
John's smile faltered. "To take back with me," he said. "So when I'm homesick and unhappy I can just open up to the picture of you looking like a lobster, covered in a gel, and looking at me like I'm the most evil person you've ever known."  
  
"You are, at the moment," Sherlock said, but the iciness of his voice was gone. John wanted to bring pictures of their trip to the lake house back to Afghanistan with him. "Will you be showing off these photos or keeping them secret?"  
  
John looked curiously at Sherlock, his brow furrowing as he tried to suss out the meaning behind Sherlock's words. "Why would I keep them a secret?" he asked slowly. "Unless there are private, naked pictures." John smirked but the serious look on Sherlock's face made it short lived.  
  
"I am unsure if you want your friends over there in Afghanistan to know about me and...us," Sherlock said as he tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt, voicing his insecurities aloud.  
  
"Sherlock, you think they don't already know all about you?" John asked incredulously.  
  
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What? Really?"  
  
"Of course," John said, gently. "Everyday they get a new Sherlock story. Sometimes it's about a case or sometimes it's just something that happened in the flat."  
  
"I see," Sherlock said, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the sunburn. "But, they don't know that you-"  
  
"Of course they do," John said. "Sherlock, you think I'm capable of being sly or subtle? You tell me all the time that I'm obvious. Georgie knew straight away that you weren't just a mate back home. I tried to deny it, but he eventually got it out of me. So now they all know. They all wished me luck before I left, too." John grinned at Sherlock who could not believe the words that were being said to him.  
  
"Alright," Sherlock said. "I concede. I will allow this photo album."  
  
"Like you had any say," John replied with a smirk. "Now give be a big smile!" Pulling the phone from his pocket again, John moved to stand beside Sherlock and held the phone out in front of them.    
  
The picture turned out to be one of John's favourites. Him, looking at the camera, beaming in delight. Sherlock, straight-faced, his skin a true vermillion in colour.  It was perfect.


	69. Camera Phone - Anne

 

[8:49am] John, delete the pictures I sent you last night. SH

[9:02] John. SH 

[9:54] Wake up, you lazy dolt… SH

[10:21] Are you ignoring me? SH

 

While it was true that John had been asleep through the first couple of texts, it was also true that he was ignoring Sherlock. Why? Because he had checked his phone and looked through the pictures Sherlock had sent him the night prior just to refresh his memory, and somehow the situation didn’t feel as “okay” as it had the night before. Because Sherlock hadn’t simply sent him a variety of embarrassing and blurry pictures. Sherlock had sent him… nudes. 

 

It had all started when John asked Sherlock to join him at a pub. To catch up. To relax. To have a good time. 

 

Everything had been fine. 

 

Okay, maybe he had snogged Sherlock a bit after they both had consumed entirely too many beers. He had caught himself though, calling them separate cabs and making sure Sherlock was whisked off to Baker Street so that the guilty doctor could no longer be tempted by dark eyes and creamy skin. Jon hadn’t seen any problem in continuing to text Sherlock after the cab had dropped him off home… But receiving naked pictures? Jesus… What would Mary say?

 

Right. She would never know. She couldn’t know. Christ… It was bloody good she had already left for work, because John couldn’t seem to stop staring at the damning evidence of his first transgressions against his wife. Even worse, no one was there to judge him so he could stare as long as he wanted and think about what he had allowed to happen. 

 

Sherlock’s body was even more impressive now that John was sober. Long stretches of skin and tantalizing bulges made him catch his breath, and he suddenly felt surprisingly hot under his collar. That could be due to all those lines and curves, or it could be due to the fact that Sherlock was incredibly well hung. Not like he needed to have Sherlock’s bare body thrown in his face to desire it. John had always found his flatmate unbelievably hot, and so he wasn’t sure whether the collection of photos he now found himself in possession of comprised the most divine torture device he had ever suffered beneath in his rather eventful lifetime, or whether they were a fucking blessing. 

 

His cock clearly had no issue with what he was seeing, instantly swelling with blood as all his past desire surfaced with a vengeance. The things he wanted to do to that body… The years he had denied the things he wanted to do to that body. The years he had spent pining over Sherlock, thirsting for his taste, yearning for the supple skin that was generally so hidden from his view.

 

His brain had other opinions. More along the lines of _not gay, married, responsible, uninterested, realistic, NOT GAY._ He was a loyal husband, dedicated to his lovely, beautiful— _Woah…_ How many fingers did Sherlock have up his arse in that picture? 

 

John moaned softly, and his heart began to speed up even more. It wasn’t as if Sherlock would allow John to put his cock up there… Right? Sherlock was asexual. Sherlock was married to his work. Sherlock was a rational academic. 

 

And John was not gay. John was married. John was  _not gay._  


 

But Sherlock had sent the pictures.  _Why_ in God’s fucking name had he sent those pictures? 

 

Sherlock, why did you send these? JW

It was an accident. SH

Like a wrong number kind of accident? JW

[Delayed] No, like a drunk accident. SH

Ah, I see. JW

John, please just delete them… SH

[Delayed] Not going to happen. JW

Why not? SH

You’re kidding, right? JW

 

John stroked his cock experimentally, instantly rewarded by a surge of pleasure. Shit, this was out of control. But Sherlock didn’t know and Mary didn’t know, which meant that John could keep this little secret to himself. He was wanking while looking at nudes of his best friend. John stroked himself again and again and again, working himself up into quite a frenzy, and then finally remembering to check his phone for messages. 

 

I don’t get it. SH

Why not? SH

Answer me, you arse! SH

Course you don’t get it. And I would explain, but it’s personal. JW

[Delayed] John, are you masturbating? SH

No. JW

John… SH

Maybe. JW

 

John knew he had made a mistake, but he didn’t care. Hell, if he was wanking, maybe Sherlock could say something hot like he had last night to help his poor, guilty friend get off. Yeah, he knew that wasn’t going to happen, but his tired, hungover, turned on mind ignored his common sense. 

 

[Delayed] Why? SH

Sherlock, I shouldn’t have to explain that to you. JW

 

John stared at his phone for ten minutes, during which he gently touched himself as he waited for a reply that didn’t come. Damn Sherlock… Was he thinking or was he just being a stubborn git? 

 

Fine. JW

I’m masturbating to the photos you sent because you’re a very attractive man and seeing naked pictures of you is turning me on. JW

Interesting. SH

Not really. JW

[Delayed] Do you want me to delete them? JW

Do whatever you want. It’s not as if we’re actually having sex. SH

Because that would be so bloody terrible. JW

Yes, it would be terrible. SH

Arse. JW

 

John did his best to ignore the sharp pang of hurt that attacked his body when he read that Sherlock thought sex with him would be terrible. Stupid git… Sherlock Holmes didn’t know anything, and John tugged harder on his cock to prove it. 

 

Do you disagree? SH

 

Okay, so it was hard to stay mad at Sherlock when he was so oblivious. 

 

Yes, I disagree. I would very much enjoy having sex with you. JW

[Delayed] That’s not what I meant. SH

Course it is. Why would you want to have sex with John Watson? Or anyone for that matter? You have more noble tasks to devote yourself to. JW

Fuck off. SH

What? Suddenly have a problem with the truth? JW

No, I have a problem with the fact that you married someone else and are now shoving it in my face. SH

 

Oops… Anger. Probably justified anger. John’s cock deflated just a bit. He hated it when Sherlock was mad at him, but he hated it even more when Sherlock was upset, and he was beginning to think the current situation fell into the latter category.

 

I’m sorry. JW

Fine. It’s fine. SH

I’ll delete the pictures. JW

Don’t. Not yet. SH

Why not? JW

I want you to gain a reasonable concept of what you’re missing. SH

 

John’s anger flared, but he didn’t text Sherlock a reply. Instead he got himself off and lay in bed feeling relaxed, satisfied, and more terrible than he had since Sherlock had left him all those years ago. Sherlock had been right. John now knew what he was missing and it only made his broken heart ache worse.


	70. Road Trip - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Road trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another part of my accidental series. The first two parts are Two Passports and A Trip to the Zoo.

“Everybody fastened properly?” Mr. Holmes asked, looking in the rearview mirror.  
  
“Yeth, Daddy!” Sherlock called out. He was so excited to go to Surrey to see the bees with John and Mycroft and Mummy and Daddy. He'd even tried to be good all morning so no one was cross. He'd brought Mummy tea, he'd given Daddy a hug and he hadn't made fun of Mycroft at all. Not even once.   
  
“Yes,” John said, checking his belt one extra time to see that it was properly done up.   
  
“Myc?” Mr. Holmes said.  
  
“Yes, Daddy,” Mycroft said as if he was indulging his idiotic father.   
  
“ _Mycroft_ , you thould be nithe to Daddy,” Sherlock hissed.   
  
“What?” Mycroft asked. He looked at his brother in disbelief.   
  
“Thtop ruining today!” Sherlock said. 

“I'm not!” Mycroft said. “Since when do you care how I speak to Daddy?”   
  
“Thinthe we're going to thee beeth and if you make him mad maybe we won't go,” Sherlock said.  
  
Mycroft open and shut his mouth. It wasn't worth having the last word if Sherlock was going to get upset after being in such a good mood all morning. _Encourage his good behaviours_ , Mycroft thought. In his mind, his parents were doing a very poor job raising Sherlock and he had to pick up the slack.

“Off we go!” Mrs. Holmes called as Mr. Holmes drove out of the drive way.  
  
The trip was unusually quiet. Sherlock kept his fidgets in check and since he was refusing to argue, Mycroft didn't have to speak and read his book. John kept a steady stream of chatter going. He had been taken with the airplanes he had seen at the airport and talked about how fast they had to go to get off the ground and how even though it _looked_ dangerous when they landed it actually _wasn't_ because it was much safer to fly than drive.   
  
Mr. Holmes, who had made sure to bring a DVD about airplanes with him on the trip just for John, listened carefully even though John had told the same facts ten times over. It was an easy task to listen to John; he had come out of a shell that nobody had realised was around him in the first place and it was a privilege to be a part of it.

  
“And then right before they land they put out wheels on the bottom, just like a car has!” John said, flexing his fingers to show just how it happened.  
  
“Jutht like beeth can fly and then when they land they land on their feet,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Yeah!” John said.   
  
“But beeth pollinate thtuff and buthh around,” Sherlock said.   


“Planes buzz too!” John said.  
  
The two chatted back and forth with the occasional comment from Mr or Mrs. Holmes the entire drive up to Surrey. They drove right to the beekeepers. They didn't want to push their luck with Sherlock's good behaviour. There had to be an end to it and they figured the closer they got to the bees, the harder it would become for Sherlock to fight his inherent impatience. 

When they drove past the signpost with a painted bee on Sherlock started to fidget again. 

When they had parked and he waited for someone to come unbuckle him from his seat, he started to whine. 

When the beekeeper came, already wearing his suit, Sherlock hugged his legs. The Holmes' stopped and stared in shock. They had severely underestimated how excited Sherlock was.  
  
Sherlock held the beekeeper's hand as they walked toward the hives, talking a mile a minute to show how knowledgeable and clever he was about bees. The beekeeper was rightfully astounded by how much the little boy had memorised.  
  
“Goodness, you do know a lot about bees don't you,” he said.  
  
“Yeth. They're my favourite. Beeth are very important,” Sherlock said.   
  
“Ah, yes. They are. And here they are,” the beekeeper said.  
  
Sherlock whipped his head around and saw several beautiful hives in front of him with bees buzzing around them.   
  
“Mummy,” he squeaked and then he burst into tears. Mrs. Holmes crouched down next to him and held his hand and Sherlock squeezed both hers and the beekeeper's hands to make sure neither of them went anywhere.  
  
“What's the matter with him? Is he scared?” the beekeeper asked.  
  
“No, I think... I think he's just a little starstruck. He's seen bees a lot on television and read about them. Seeing hives like this... he's just excited,” Mrs. Holmes said.   
  
Sherlock cried and cried, and John started to worry that he might never stop. He pulled out his drawing book and flipped past dozen of drawings of planes to a blank page.  
  
He quickly drew a smiling bee, complete with wheels for feet. 

  
“Sherlock, here! The bees don't want you to cry,” he said, holding up the happy bee picture.  
  
“Oh!” Mrs. Holmes breathed, putting her free hand to her mouth.   
  
“The beeth don't want me to cry?” Sherlock said, sniffing.  
  
“No, they want you smile like this bee,” John said, holding the bee picture closer to Sherlock's face in case he hadn't seen it.  
  
“The beeth want me to thmile?” Sherlock asked.  
“Yeah! Try it!” John said.  
  
Sherlock bared his teeth in what was a grimace of a smile and then seemed to recover from his starstruck shock. He took the picture from John and sat down in the grass and started to draw more bees and a hive on it, again talking a mile a minute.   
  
They had their lunch in the beekeeper's garden. Sherlock had three slices of toast with honey while the others had a more substantial meal.   
  
It was late afternoon when they finally made their way to the Surrey house and Sherlock was so exhausted from being good all morning and so excited all afternoon that he slept through snacks, dinner and all the way to breakfast the following day.


	71. Road Trip - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on these prompts, so check out the other parts if you haven't yet!

"Come on!" John said, enthusiastically later that evening.  "It'll be fine.  It'll be fun.  You can't deny me something I want to do when I'm going to be leaving again in a few days."  
  
Sherlock glared at John.  "This is a preposterous idea."  
  
"Sod the car service," John said.  "We'll rent one and drive ourselves back and take detours along the way."  
  
With narrowed eyes, Sherlock peered at John.  "This is going to be a disaster, you know."  
  
John grinned, accepting that as a concession.  He would be getting his way.  "It won't be.  I promise.  We're going to take pictures to add to the album I'm taking back with me to Afghanistan."  
  
"Pictures of _what_ , exactly?" Sherlock asked.  "Me driving?  The trees?"  
  
"It's a road trip, Sherlock."  
  
"It's a drive back to London.  That a car service would be able to do quickly to get us home."  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
"Fine."  
  
John grinned before his mouth opened up in a gigantic yawn.  "Christ, I'm exhausted.  Getting drunk with you two nights in a row has really taken a lot out of me.  To bed?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up energetically.  "Yours or mine?  I'm partial to my bed, but I have never slept in the guest bed before.  So I suppose that this could be an opportunity for us to-"  
  
"What?" John asked, his eyes widening as he took a step back to take in Sherlock's face fully.  
  
"Boyfriends sleep together.  I'm assuming you and I will be sharing a bed from now on," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone.  "Assuming we don't fall asleep on the floor of the living room _yet again._ "  
  
John was still silent.  
  
Sherlock felt mortified.   "Clearly, that is not something that you are interested in doing," he said quickly.  "Forget I mentioned it."  
  
"No," John said, finally regaining the use of his voice.  "Forget it?"  
  
"Yes, John.  You don't seem to want to share a bed with me."  Sherlock's brain went into overdrive as he began to formulate reasons as to why this would be.  John had spent so long proving to everyone (including himself) that he was interested in women, that he only slept with women, that he only shared a bed with women...And to sleep with Sherlock must have been too much.  
  
"It's too much," John said, shaking his head slowly.   
  
Sherlock tried not to smile triumphantly that John had immediately validated his theory, but it wasn't a happy smile by any means.  He felt his heart start to splinter as his eyes grew sad.  
  
"I never expected it.  I've wanted it so badly, Sherlock.  I can't even imagine it happening at this point now that I know it will."  
  
The words broke through Sherlock's pain and before he was conscious of his body's actions, he had thrown himself at John, his lips moving pressing themselves fiercely against John's.  John responded immediately and lifted Sherlock up effortlessly, hooking and wrapping the detective's long legs around his waist.  "Your room," John managed to get out between kisses.  Sherlock moaned and tried to nod in agreement, but it was lost in the movement of John maneuvering them out of the room and up the stairs.  
  
Separately, both Sherlock and John had expected to stay awake that night, sharing their first night in a bed together by snogging and touching and more.  They were wrong.  Both had been so exhausted from their two nights of drunken antics that when they stumbled into Sherlock's bed together, it was only another ten minutes of kissing before they broke apart and looked at each other happily, not even noticing that their eyes were closing heavily, and their bodies unwinding and relaxing.  More than that, their bodies seemed to mold together, their limbs finding each other during the night, entwining and holding one another.  
  
Neither John nor Sherlock had any nightmares that night.  
  
Which was more than could have been said for what the reality of their road trip back to London was like.  
  
The photos that John did manage to take when he and Sherlock weren't shouting at each other, or ignoring one another, were good.  They depicted  beautiful country landscapes, a rather peaceful creek that John had found when he forced Sherlock to pull over so he could get away from him for a minute, and a picture of Sherlock driving after John had made him laugh.  The sun illuminated the sides of the picture, the glass causing the rays to throw cascades of colours in the background.  Sherlock's nose was crinkled and his eyes were near slits as he laughed at John's comment about Mycroft.   
  
The Sherlock who emerged from the rental car when they returned it and proceeded to walk into a cab was far from the jovial one in John's picture on his phone.  This Sherlock was surly and  John had a sneaking suspicion that as soon as they returned to the flat, the remainder or their evening would be spent apart.  With a resigned sigh, John joined Sherlock in the cab, unsurprised when Sherlock's body turned away from John's to stare out of the window for the entire trip back to the flat.   
  
More than anything, John hated that he had been wrong and Sherlock had been right.  The road trip idea had been a disaster, a fiasco.  Sherlock had been unsociable and rude, and John had not taken it lightly.  They fought about directions and which detours to take (in that Sherlock wanted to take non to get back to London as quickly as possible while John argued that Sherlock's mentality negated the entire point of the road trip).  He had thought that there would be many pictures to add to his photo album, that he would be able to relive the wonderful memories once back in Afghanistan.  
  
The problem was, however, that even the pictures John had from the road trip were tainted and plagued by the memories of how utterly abysmal the experience had been.  Those pictures would not make it into the album.


	72. Road Trip - Anne

 

“Sherlock,  _shut up_ ,” John yelled for perhaps the hundredth time as the other man criticized the area they were driving through and the speed with which John was driving through it and the entire road trip idea. John had made a mistake in insisting upon it despite Sherlock’s objections, and it was not a mistake he would make again. Having Sherlock in the car with him was pure torture. Listening to the arrogant detective prattle on about his discomfort and general discontent was perhaps the worst way John could have picked to spend the day. And if Sherlock asked to pull over again, John had half a mind to dig a grave and throw Sherlock Holmes into it. 

 

“John, I’m bored. I’m dying. I’m bored. I’m dying.  _Fix it_.” 

 

“I heard you. I hear you. We’ll be home soon.”  _Soon_. John had been saying they would be home soon since they left. 

 

“How soon?” 

 

“A couple of hours.” 

 

“Intolerable.” 

 

“Yes, you’re certainly making it that way.” 

 

Sherlock sighed dramatically, resting his feet on the dashboard and pouting in silence for all of five minutes before he started up again, this time adopting a more devastating tactic. 

 

“Is this road trip thing something you picked up from your family? Mine generally just flew to our summer house in France. Planes are much more efficient than cars, don’t you think? I suppose your family never had the money for that sort of thing.”

 

“Yes, Sherlock. That is correct. We didn’t have the money to go on fancy trips throughout Europe. But we didn’t exactly go on a lot of road trips anyway.” Hm… The money thing wasn’t working. The money thing  _never_ worked. John was simply too bloody humble and unimpressed by wealth. Something more then. Sherlock could come up with something more. 

 

“Ah, yes. Suppose it would be a bad idea to be in a car with an alcoholic.” The detective watched John’s knuckles grew white as John clutched the steering wheel a bit tighter. 

 

The contents of his stomach flipping around haphazardly at Sherlock’s unwelcome commentary. Jesus, the rude arse was really on a role today. 

 

However, when John didn’t outright take the bait, Sherlock simply dug even further.

 

“Don’t want to have any nasty accidents, after all. Other than the necessary damage you incurred from being the aforementioned alcoholic’s punching bag.” 

 

  
_Fucking git_. What did Sherlock think he was doing anyway? Why was it so bloody important he get a rise out of John when John just wanted them to have a nice time?

 

“Get out,” John demanded in a pinched voice, swerving the car over to the side of the road with a sudden jerk. There was a loud screeching sound and a nasty bump when the front wheels left the concrete of the road and hit dirt. John didn’t let the sudden lurch make him waver in his purpose, but rather continued to unlock the car doors with a quick flick of his pointer finger. 

 

“What?” 

 

“I said  _get out_ ,” John repeated, the volume of his voice increasing dangerously. 

 

“But… Where are we?” Sherlock peered out of his window and was met with cows and an endless field of tall grasses. 

 

“Does it matter?” 

 

“You’re not really going to leave me by the side of the road, John.” 

 

“Watch me.” 

 

“This is ridiculous.” 

 

“What’s ridiculous is that you felt the need to…  _verbalize_ some of your deductions about my  _private life_ just because I wanted to take a bloody  _drive_ through the bloody _countryside_ with you. Torture of all tortures.” 

 

“I… didn’t mean it,” Sherlock muttered defensively, making no move to get out of the car. 

 

John scoffed, throwing up his head and turning away from the other man so Sherlock couldn’t see the tears prickling the sides of his eyes. 

 

“Like hell you didn’t mean it. You were right, by the way. Cheers.” 

 

Sherlock paused, his sense of guilt swelling within him until he was nursing a large dose of terrorizing self-hate that wouldn’t seem to dissipate. 

 

John seemed to see it, because he took in a few deep breaths and slowly pulled back onto the road without another word. 

 

Why had Sherlock done that? Why had he snapped at  _John_ of all people? 

 

“John…” Sherlock began, the venom long gone from his restless mind.

 

“Sherlock.” It was a warning.  _Don’t make this any worse than you already have_.

 

“I’m sorry.” John let out a short gust of air, finally feeling his body begin to relax out of survival mode, even though he was still basically pissed at the pompous dolt before him.

 

“I know.”

 

“Any way I could make it up to you?” Sherlock queried carefully, not wanting to incite any more of John’s wrath with a thoughtless mistake. “I’ll do anything.” 

 

Tears finally trickled down the other man’s cheeks and chin, working him into such a state that John had to pull over again because the water was obstructing his view of the road ahead of them. Sherlock was shocked into silence once more. He hadn’t the slightest idea how to deal with something like this. In retrospect, he probably should have considered that before he had started digging into his best friend’s past so ruthlessly. 

 

Sherlock began fussing over John once he had broken out of the ice of surprise, brushing away tears with his fingers and running his hands through wispy, blond hair. 

 

“I’m sorry… John…” Sherlock grabbed at John with awkward hands, trying to figure out a way to comfort him from his limited position and with his limited experience in such matters. 

 

“I… I never even told my therapist that, you git,” the doctor admitted in a cold voice, his face clammy and his eyes intense with stress. 

 

“Well, your therapist was a moron,” Sherlock instantly replied, pressing a few kisses to John’s forehead. His mum had done that sometimes, and while he had always complained about it, Sherlock knew a kiss could be the best cure for a bad mood. He hadn’t necessary meant to kiss John on the lips a couple times as well, but he had been worked up, barely aware of his own actions. Right? 

 

John said nothing. He simply calmed himself and pulled back out onto the road. It was a good five minutes later when he began talking. 

 

“Did you kiss me?”

 

“Yes, I believe so. Not good?” 

 

“No, I would say it was very good. In fact, I would like to recommend you do that more often. Maybe not just when you’re apologizing for doing something terrible to me.” 

 

“I’ll… keep that in mind.” 

 

To John’s relief, Sherlock was quiet and well behaved for the remainder of their road trip. 


	73. One Life Jacket - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: One Life Jacket.

John had practiced all summer to learn how to swim. He had learned to float and then he'd learned how to kick his legs while holding on to the side of the pool. When he'd mastered that, he'd learned how to float and kick his legs at the same time while holding on to a board. And then, finally, he'd learned to use his arms. He didn't have to use a life jacket when he was swimming anymore and he told every who would listen about it. He'd even been allowed in the deep end because he had become such an accomplished swimmer.  
  
That's where he was now, in the deep end. He was looking at the pale blue tiles of the swimming pool and how they distorted with the movement of the water. He looked at the air bubbles around him and wondered if he'd ever seen anything as scary before. It had been the last air in his lungs and now it had been expelled into the water that was all around him. The water he couldn't get out of.   
  
He regretted learning how to swim. He regretted ever going to the pool.   
  
He was so afraid. His chest hurt and he was trying so, so hard to kick himself to the surface for air but he couldn't.  
  
His grandfather had died a year earlier and it had been sad because John never saw him again after that. Dad had said death meant never coming back because you went to sleep forever because you were that tired. John hadn't understood then, but he was starting to now. He was going to go to sleep in the water and never wake up. He stopped kicking. His thoughts were getting so muddled that even though he knew he wasn't supposed to breathe under water it was starting to feel like a good idea.   
  
There was a splash next to him but he couldn't pay attention. He hadn't thought that falling asleep forever would hurt so much. He kicked once more before he gave up. Maybe he'd have nice dreams.

 

Someone gripped his wrist and tugged him upwards. He didn't get very far but it was far enough for whoever was touching him to get their hands under his armpits and pull.   
  
John broke through the surface and inhaled so sharply that he started to cough.   
  
“MUMMY!” the little boy who was wrapped up in a bright orange life jacket screamed. The life jacket wouldn't hold them both up for long and the boy was kicking all he could while holding on to John.  
  
“ _Oh my god!_ ” Mrs. Holmes shouted before she flung herself in the water to hold both the boys up.   
  
The two boys were rescued and laid out to dry on lounge chairs. John was inconsolable in his tears and Sherlock was basking in the praise he was receiving from dozens of strangers.   
  
And somewhere in that mayhem, they were connected and spent the rest of their lives saving each other from daring escapades.


	74. One Life Jacket - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on these prompts so start at the beginning, yo!

Mrs. Hudson heard her boys arrive home and was going to greet them, until she heard the stomping of Sherlock's feet on the steps, and the lack of discussion between them.  She could practically feel the chill emanating from them through her door.  _I'll go up and check on them later,_ she thought, moving into her flat.  _I just hope this doesn't have anything to do with their feelings for each other_.  
  
Sherlock walked straight into his bedroom once he made it inside the flat and he threw his bag down onto the floor before flopping face down onto his bed.  What had gone so wrong?  
  
Alright, perhaps he shouldn't have started instigating.  And the comment about John's poor direction and how it was probably because of a deficiency in his early developmental stages was a bit out of line.  And John being offended by Sherlock merely mentioning that John's idea to go on a road trip was idiotic, though he should not have been surprised because most of John's ideas are idiotic, was most likely what acted as the primary catalyst in the downward spiral of their trip back home.  
  
Sherlock heard the footsteps on the stairs and was expecting them to not even stop on the landing, but rather continue up the stairs.  But there was a pause, a break in their momentum.  The footsteps hesitated for just a second, but it was enough for Sherlock to think that perhaps he had not completely desecrated his chance with John.  Just before the footsteps began to move again, Sherlock took a chance.  
  
"John?" he called out.  
  
No sound came from the stairs.  Sherlock didn't even dare to breathe.   
  
The footsteps started up the stairs.  Paused.  Took one more step upward.  Paused.  Quick succession of downward steps as they became louder and louder, Sherlock's bedroom door opening and John stepping inside.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Sherlock had to force himself not to wince at the tone of John's voice.  The hurt, the pain, the anger.  He had caused this, again.  And now, for what felt like the hundredth time since John had come home, Sherlock needed to repair the damage he had done.  
  
"Come to bed."  
  
John stayed where he was and just looked at Sherlock.  He wanted to turn around and walk out.  He wanted to show that he would not tolerate being talked to like he had been in the car.  He wanted to show that he didn't need Sherlock Holmes.  
  
But he did.  
  
Slowly, John moved forward and lied down on the bed beside Sherlock.  With a huffy breath, John said, "You were-"  
  
"A cock?" Sherlock offered.  
  
"A right foul one," John agreed.  "I wanted _one_ thing, Sherlock.  _One_.  And you, for whatever reason, ruined it."  
  
"I did."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
A silence settled upon them and Sherlock took the chance to scoot himself closer to John's body.  He was turned on his side while John was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.  Another little scoot closer and Sherlock's chest was resting gently against John's arm.   
  
"Why _do_ you do things like that?" John asked softly, hating that he loved having Sherlock's body pressed against him.  "It's like you're trying to prove a point that you can be...you can be..."  
  
"I don't know why," Sherlock admitted.  "But I offended you, hurt you deeply, and for that I apologise."  
  
John was stunned.  Sherlock had apologised.  _Actually_ apologised.  Done the thing properly and said the words, not hinted at some sort of vague figure of an apology.  "Thank you," John said awkwardly.  
  
Sherlock nodded as he moved closer and tentatively placed his arm around John's stomach.  "I'll be on my best behaviour from here on out," he said.  "Or, I'll try to be.  It may be difficult."  
  
"Because you're too settled in old habits?" John asked, lifting a hand to stroke Sherlock's arm.   
  
"Yes," Sherlock said as he rested his head against John's shoulder.  He inhaled deeply, marveling at the fact that this was something they could do, they John wanted to do.  "I..."  
  
"I know, Sherlock," John said.  "You don't have to say it.  I know you love me too."  
  
Perhaps it was Sherlock wanting to prove to John how much he cared, or how much he regretted everything he said in the car, or the realisation that there only existed a few more days to do this before John left again, but the overwhelming urge to be open and honest took hold of him.  
  
"I do," Sherlock said.  "I was deplorable to you today, and yet here you are, lying beside me in bed.  There are times when I'm not sure why you even bother to stay around.  But each time, I'm relieved that you do."  
  
"Sherlock..."  John felt his throat getting tight and his eyes felt a bit prickly.  "You can't need me that much.  You managed to get on alright before we met."  
  
"No, John.  I didn't."  
  
John wanted to look at Sherlock, to see his face, but he feared that this conversation would not continue.  Instead, John cleared his throat and asked, "What does that mean?"  
  
"It means," Sherlock said softly.  "That I was drowning, John.  I was trying not to use, trying to focus my mind, trying not to be so... _alone_.  I thought a flatmate would help, but who would ever want to live with me?  And there you were, walking into Bart's.  You were my life jacket.  You kept me afloat.  You saved my life.  Of course I love you."  
  
John was glad that Sherlock wasn't looking up at his face for that because his face was being arranged into a rather ridiculous expression to keep the emotion from spilling from his eyelids.   
  
"But I return the sentiment," John said, to diffuse the raw emotion that was filling up the room at a startling pace.  
  
Sherlock snorted at John harking back to their previous conversation.  "I assumed as much.  It is why you forgive me when you probably shouldn't, in all honesty.  You need me, like I need you.  And I need no one, John."  
  
"Sherlock Holmes who only works alone," John said with a soft chuckle.  "But you need me."  
  
"Unfortunately."  
  
"Unfortunately?"  
  
"...Fortunately."  
  
"That's what I thought."


	75. One Life Jacket - Anne

Sherlock hadn’t considered the possibility of drowning when he had gotten high on Jim’s yacht and jumped over the side. 

 

Okay, maybe he had considered the possibility of drowning. 

 

Maybe he had intended to drown. 

 

Sherlock knew drowning would be painful. Water would flood his lungs and he would be in agonizing pain until he lost consciousness. But then it would be over. No more 7% solution, no more alcohol, no more mindless sex, no more loneliness, depression, mood swings, and no more self-hate. Sherlock could sleep. Actually sleep. Not the unsatisfying Xanax induced daze he was becoming accustomed to.

 

Arms out, eyes closed, and then the leap. It would all be so simple.

 

One, two, three…

 

_Go._

 

Sherlock’s thin body fell through the air and collided with the water below with a crash. Jim, who was drifting in a haze of heroin, didn’t even look up at the sound, choosing instead to hum part of a Beethoven symphony as he fell into the darkness of one of his dreams.

 

Sherlock thrashed in the water, getting overwhelmed by the wake of the boat. He didn’t want to die. No matter how badly he wanted to die, he didn’t _want_ to die. Luckily, his body was tired quickly, his mind instantly turned off, and then… nothing. 

 

Blackness, silence, relief. 

 

The next thing Sherlock knew, he was coughing up water on an unfamiliar dock. The boat was small and old, nothing like Jim’s, and the rocking back and forth was almost intolerable. Yes, he was going to get sea sick soon if the movement didn’t abate. 

 

“Jesus…  _Fuck_. Mike, get blankets. You’re alive… Christ, you’re alive…” a panicked voice called out through the rapidly evaporating mist. Sherlock’s eyes flickered open, and met dark, deep, worried ones. His savior. The one who had ruined his plans and extended his miserable existence. Great. A blanket covered him and strong hands helped him up to seated. “Everything’s okay.” Sherlock was shivering from the communion of cold water and rough wind, and his teeth chattered so loudly that he could barely hear anything else above the sound.

 

“Is there some reason you weren’t wearing a life jacket? That’s a pretty general rule when you’re out on water like this. Lucky I found you. Doctor John Watson, by the way.”

 

“Right.”

 

"I don’t blame you for falling off. The wind is going fast today. Probably caught you off-guard.”

 

“Something like that.” If Doctor Watson could consider a suicide attempt the result of being caught off-guard by a gust of powerful wind. John looked at him carefully, clearing his throat and returning his attention to the only other man on the boat, a chubby bloke who was clearly steering them over the ocean. 

 

“This is Mike Stamford…” he added in a low voice when he had ascertained that they were still going in the correct direction and returned to Sherlock’s side, rubbing Sherlock's arms almost subconsciously in an attempt to coax heat back into the stranger’s skeleton of a body. 

 

What did John Watson know? Could John tell that he was high? That he was depressed? Did John Watson know who he was? No. Paranoia. All paranoia. Sherlock’s body and mind really were mutually out of control, though, twitching with internal restlessness that never quite manifested itself into movement. 

 

“We’re taking you back to shore. What’s your name?” John added when he received no response from Sherlock.

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“So I can call someone for you… You had a fairly heinous accident.”

 

Sherlock scoffed, tossing some wet hair out of his eyes. 

 

“You just think I’m crazy. You think I’m going to try to kill myself again.” 

 

John paused, his face blanching to an even more shocking off-white hue as he processed what Sherlock had revealed to him. After all, pulling a victim of chance out of the jaws of death was different than stopping a suicide attempt. 

 

“I don’t think that. I didn’t say anything like that.” _Christ_. Who had John pulled out of the water? Was this clearly disturbed man his responsibility now? “What’s your name?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes.” 

 

“Who can I call? Do you live with someone? Could you stay with family for a while?” 

 

“No. There’s no one. And I’m fine.” 

 

“Right. Just fine.” High, most likely, from John’s observations. High and suicidal. There was no way he was leaving this man to crawl back into whatever hole he had emerged from. Furthermore, he certainly wasn’t entrusting his patient to whomever owned the fancy yacht that had lost a passenger over the side and still kept speeding forward to God know’s where. 

 

Sherlock Holmes was so young too… Too young to have his unmarked, lifeless body found washed up on a distant beach. 

 

“I’ll check you into a hospital then. Not a big deal…”

 

“ _No._ “ Ah, Sherlock really opposed that course of action then. Which meant drugs. John was almost sure now. 

 

“Um… alright? You’ll stay with me then. If you don’t mind.” 

 

“Going home with a strange bloke? You must think I’m an idiot.” A violent shiver struck Sherlock again and John could only imagine what he was thinking. His offer had been more than a bit odd, that was true, but the other boy’s expression seemed overly intense. Sherlock was thinking along the lines of John tying him up and selling him as a sex slave, while John was thinking along the lines of an awkward dinner and a night of medical surveillance. 

 

“God, sorry… You don’t have to. _Sorry._ Just thought you’d want somewhere safe for a bit.” _Safe._ John messed up his hair in anxious thought, trying to come up with an alternative solution to keep Sherlock safe. There had to be something. 

 

“Yes, okay.” 

 

“What?”

 

“Yes, I’ll go home with you.” 

 

____________________________________________________________________

 

As soon as John pulled Sherlock into his flat (with Mike’s help of course), he helped the other boy into his bed and covered him in as many blankets as he could find, then ordered out for Chinese and spooned wanton soup into a very difficult Sherlock until he was content that his patient was regaining his strength. 

 

Then John shut the bedroom door softly, so as to not disturb Sherlock, and settled his exhausted body on the couch with a sheet and a pillow and tried to fall asleep. 

 

He slept poorly, finding himself roused by every creak of the old apartment building and every hum of the ice maker next door. Why? He had no reason to be so tense… Really, he didn’t. But he was worried about Sherlock Holmes… More worried than he had been in years. Hell, he hadn’t been this worried since he had been living at home, and then had spent the majority of his time protecting his mother and his little sister from his drunk and aggressive dad. This situation involved protecting someone from himself, which he imagined would be much harder. 

 

John awoke with a start, covered in a cold sweat that wouldn’t stop and crying silent tears that dripped down his cheeks and stained the sofa. Panic attack. In his dark imaginings, Sherlock was dead. He had hung himself with a curtain. He had suffocated himself with a pillow. He had slit his wrists. He had jumped out the window. John didn’t know what, but something had happened. John had gone to sleep and let Sherlock die. 

 

Without another thought, John bolted into his bedroom, padding the bed softly until he found Sherlock. 

 

“What the  _fuck_?” a tired voice mumbled in a confused voice. 

 

“ _Sherlock_.“

 

“What? What’s going on?” Sherlock’s low baritone was muffled by the blankets, so John pulled fabric away until two half-opened eyes peered back at him.

 

“I’m… I’m so sorry. Sorry, um… I’ll be going.” 

 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said in the midst of a yawn, resting his hand on John’s arm before he could slink away. “What’s wrong?” Another long yawn. The young genius hadn’t slept in a long time, and John’s bed was really comfortable. 

 

“Nothing.” 

 

“Your pulse.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Your pulse is racing,” Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow with concern, blinking some of the sleep out of his eyes, looking John over quickly, and then pulling his new, shaking acquaintance down into the bed with him.

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

“We’re going to sleep.” 

 

John stared at Sherlock, his heart in his throat and nearly choking him. 

 

And then the doctor acquiesced, melting into the mattress beside Sherlock Holmes and even letting his new friend tuck him in with a plush blanket and hold him close with a casual arm around his waist. His pulse immediately returned to normal, and he felt an instant calm descend upon his relaxing body.

 

“You tried to kill yourself…” John murmured, earning a heartbreaking look from the most beautiful pale eyes he had ever seen in his life. Sherlock nodded slowly, his curls brushing up against John’s chin in a way that the doctor found endlessly reassuring. 

 

“I did. And you saved me.” 


	76. Sleeping Bag - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Sleeping bag

Sherlock had forgotten his sleeping bag at home and home was about an hour and a half away.   
  
“Sorry, sir,” he said to the camp leader.  
  
“Alright. We'll just have to learn to share. Watson, unzip your sleeping bag and share it with Holmes,” he said.  
  
“What? But, sir,” John said, looking aghast. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Afraid to look gay in front of his friends_ , he thought. Typical male. Another typical stupid human being who was going to do all they could to make sure everyone knew he had no association with Sherlock Holmes.   
  
“I can sleep without a sleeping bag,” Sherlock said as if the whole conversation dulled him instead of being completely humiliating.  
  
“What? No, you can't,” John said.   
  
“No?” Sherlock asked in surprise.  
  
“It gets too cold at night. Look, we'll just... have to do it that way,” John said.   
  
John was looking at Sherlock, obviously waiting for confirmation. Sherlock gave it with a nod and John left and stayed away until it was time to go to bed.

“Right. In you get,” John said, gesturing at the opening of the tent.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John for the second time that day and climbed in. He didn't bother taking any clothes off to spare himself the inevitable automatic defense all the males at his school seemed to have once they had realised he was gay. They didn't want rumours flying around. John wouldn't want rumours flying around. Sherlock laid back on the hard ground and sighed softly.   
  
“Going to be a cold night,” John said.   
  
_Ah, yes. Polite enough to give me an excuse to why you won't be changing_ , Sherlock thought.  
  
John threw the sleeping bag over them both and then laid down.  
  
Sherlock's heart was suddenly in his throat. Somehow the sides of their hands had ended up touching as John came to a rest. And John wasn't moving.   
  
He listened for any change in John's breathing or any sign at all that he was uncomfortable. He found none, expect that his breathing was perhaps just a little deeper than usual but that could just be an indication of a sleepy state.  
  
Sherlock lay very still. If John suddenly pulled away and accused him of trying to touch him, he could easily say he had been asleep and hadn't noticed anything.  
  
But John did no such thing.   
  
After a few minutes, Sherlock started to feel a little movement from John's pinky. It very softly rubbed against Sherlock's.   
  
John's breaths were even deeper now and it took several seconds for Sherlock to unscramble his brain enough to realise it.   
  
He still didn't say anything. He was terrified it was a trick to make a fool out of him.   
  
The movements became bolder and John started to rub his finger up the length of Sherlock's so that it was unmistakeable what he was doing. 

He supposed that John must have taken his inactivity as an invitation because he hooked their little fingers together and then held his breath.  
  
But then again, so did Sherlock. Or something of the sort. It felt more like John had stolen his breath away.  
  
It came back when John, with what sounded like a bracing breath of air, let go off his little finger and grabbed his entire hand.  
  
Sherlock had the urge to sit up and look down at their intertwined hands. He had no idea what his hand looked like being held by another person's like this. It had never happened before.   
  
John's breaths became the same deep and steady breaths they had just been and they lay together in the dark, their palms slowly heating and becoming slightly sweaty.   
  
They were still for so long that Sherlock wondered if John had fallen asleep. He wished it was so because then their hands could stay as they were all night.   
  
A movement a few minutes later was plenty of evidence enough to prove that John was not asleep. 

John had pushed himself over on his side and was now hovering with his face over Sherlock's. His deep, steady breaths were touching Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock wondered if they were about to speak, to exchange some words about what had happened and what was surely about to happen. If John had planned on saying anything, it didn't happen. Sherlock liked the idea that John had been about to say something but then been overwhelmed by the need to kiss him. Because that's what he did.   
  
John brought his lips forward with so much uncertainty that Sherlock might have wondered if he had really wanted to engage in a kiss if it hadn't been for the tighter hold his hand was suddenly in.   
  
“Ilikeyou,” John said very quickly when they broke apart.  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said. The fact that John was holding his breath again made him think he should say something more. “Will you kiss me again?”   
  
John didn't speak before their second ever kiss either.


	77. One Sleeping Bag - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts so chickitycheck the previous ones first if you haven't.

"This is yours if you want it," Sherlock said after a few moments of silence again.   
  
"What is?" John asked.  "Are you offering up your body to me, Sherlock?"  He chuckled at his joke, though a part of him hoped that Sherlock would start taking off his clothes.  
  
" _This_ ," Sherlock said, gesturing around the room.  " _This_ is yours if you want it.  All of this.  My bed.  My room. We can use yours for storage.  Move in with me, John."  
  
John laughed, though he felt himself warm considerably.  "I already moved in, Sherlock.  I live here."  
  
"You sleep upstairs.  Sleep with me."  
  
"You really want that?"  John was grinning and he decided it was time that they finally faced each other.  Sherlock was offering something extraordinary and for this, John needed to be able to see his face.  Gently, he raised Sherlock's arm that was wrapped over him and turned his body so they were nose to nose.  "Sherlock, that's an awfully big ask.  One I'm definitely willing to take you up on, but are you sure that's what you want?"  
  
Sherlock looked into John's eyes and sighed impatiently.  "Yes, John," he said.  "I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't sure it's what I wanted.  _You_ were the one who told Mrs. Hudson that of _course_ we'd be needing two bedrooms when you first moved in.  _I_ was perfectly happy to share a bed with you."  
  
"Sherlock, we knew each other for less than a day!  What was I supposed to do?"  
  
"Admit your attraction to me and avoid fighting the inevitable."  
  
"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds like I should have just gone into this head first."  
  
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed.  "I like the way that sounds.  Head first."  
  
John chuckled.  "Easy there, Sherlock.  You really want me to do this?  Move into your room?  Sleep in your bed?"  
  
" _Our_ bed," Sherlock swiftly corrected.  "And yes. I really want you to do this.  I can't imagine your bed upstairs compares to this one."   
  
"It's definitely better than the fucking cot I sleep on in Afghanistan," John said with a grimace.  "And the cot is better than the sleeping bag I use more often then not for patrols."  
  
"My bed is better than your sleeping bag?"  
  
"God, yeah," John said as he wiggled his body dramatically into the mattress.  "Do you know how bloody awful it's going to be when I have to get back into that sleeping bag, knowing what's here waiting for me?"  
  
"Our bed?"  
  
"And you," John said, his pupils dilating.  "You're here."  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said.  "When you come home, I will be here.  Waiting."  


"Waiting for what?" John asked, his breathing loud in his own ears.

"To dive into this," Sherlock said, inch his body downward.  " _Head_ first."

"Sherlock?" John asked, his eyes closing with arousal and comprehension.  "Sherlock...you don't have to..."

But Sherlock's fingers were already making fast and precise movements on John's trousers.  Sherlock's fingers were already wrapping around John's cock (which was growing in length and thickness at an impressively fast rate).  Sherlock's fingers were already guiding John's cock to his lips.   


Technically speaking, it was not the greatest blowjob John had ever received in his lifetime.  Sherlock was inexperienced, a little clumsy, and needed to take a few breaths every so often to reset himself and his throat.  But John looked down in awe at the way his Sherlock's cheeks hollowed out, making the cheekbones, somehow, even more pronounced.  John's hips bucked as Sherlock moaned around his cock, the vibrations resonating throughout every nerve and cell of his body.  John's cock throbbed when the reality of the situation hit him, that Sherlock's lips were on him, that John was the focus of Sherlock's actions, that _John_ was the one who Sherlock was paying such absolute attention to through all of this.  Sherlock was always so diligent about details at a case.  John's cock was the case, and Sherlock was exploring it and researching it with his tongue and lips and mouths and-  


"Oh God!" John cried out in a strangled moan as he came.  "Sherlock, _yes_." 

Sherlock swallowed down every drop, relishing in the taste of what he had only imagined before then.  He would need to do this multiple time before John left in order to commit the taste to memory.   


"That was..."  John was at a loss for words.  No, it had not been the greatest blowjob he had ever received as far as technique was concerned, but it was far and away the most satisfying and rewarding and... "The best."  


Proud of himself, and with a rather smug smile, Sherlock moved back up to the pillow.  "Oh?"

"Oh," John replied.  "And now, let me repay the favour.  Head first, right?."  


Sherlock's eyes widened for only a moment before they closed in ecstasy.  For their first night in their shared bed, there was very little sleeping.  The two stayed awake, exploring with their hands and mouths, their fingers and lips trailing along the contours of their bodies, and their tongues following closely behind.  


	78. One Sleeping Bag - Anne

 

“What do you mean you didn’t bring a sleeping bag?” John asked carefully as he set up a tent on a reasonably flat patch of dirt. He had invited a few friends on a backpacking trip, and it already wasn’t turning out how he had hoped. For starters, Sherlock had complained about the weight on his back for the entirety of the 3 kilometer hike to the campground, he had complained about the hike itself (a "pointless trek through uninspired greenery"), he had complained about having to share a tent, he had complained (prematurely) about having to sleep on the ground, he had complained about the other blokes on the trip (not very privately), and now, after all of that, he was telling John that he hadn’t even thought to bring a sleeping bag.

 

“I put sleeping bag on the list I made. I  _made_ you a list, and you still fucked up.”

 

“I never read it.”

 

“Christ, Sherlock…” John was used to putting up with a lot from Sherlock. After all, Sherlock was his best friend as well as a posh, demanding arse. However, now John was most definitely frustrated. 

 

He couldn’t invite his best friend on a camping trip without being severely punished by Sherlock himself? He couldn’t expect to maintain other friendships  _and_ enjoy the massive personality of one Sherlock Holmes (who seemed to crush everyone that he happened to come into contact with)? John angrily threw his hands into the air, and then let them fall against his sides as he released a long sigh. Fighting Sherlock wasn’t worth it. Not now. 

 

“Maybe you should go… Hike back… We can do this another time.” 

 

Sherlock pouted stubbornly. For all of his complaining, there was no way he was going to let John kick him off of the camping trip, even if it did require him to carry around a backpack that weighed half of his body weight, walk through boring trees, share a tent with John (who he imagined would smell terrible in the mornings), sleep on a surface riddled with rocks and bumps, converse with _others_ who weren’t remotely as interesting as John was, and apparently come up with a solution to the sleeping bag problem. 

 

“No. It will be fine.” John couldn’t help but smile weakly at that. Sherlock was an impossible git if nothing else, especially when he had made up his mind about something. 

 

“I suppose you’re sharing my sleeping bag then.” 

 

“Is it big enough for the two of us?” 

 

“Should be if we unzip it and cover ourselves with a blanket.” Sherlock nodded, pleased that John wasn’t angry enough at him to send him home. 

 

The day was tiring, and by the end of it Sherlock didn’t want to take another step forward. Going up a muddy hill was definitely the highlight. He just loved being bitten by bugs, tripping and sliding down an incline on his arse, washing himself off in an absolutely freezing lake by the campsite, and eating freeze-dried noodles for dinner. Needless to say, he was in a terrible mood by the time the boys were settling down for the night. 

 

Sherlock adhered himself to John’s side as soon as the other bloke lay himself down in the tent, grabbing the majority of the blanket and contenting himself with a private sulk that just happened to take place on John’s chest. John pulled away though, turning his back on Sherlock and curling into a little ball in the corner of the tent. 

 

The young genius whined, hitting the side of the tent with his fist and making the whole thing shake. 

 

“ _Sherlock_ , fuck off! Why are you being such a childish dolt?!” John fumed, throwing the blanket aside entirely and tugging on his hair. 

 

“Because I came all the way up here to spend time with you and I hate camping!” John was smoking, boiling, finally admitting to himself that Sherlock had spent the day making him angry. He couldn’t stand Sherlock. He would never forgive Sherlock after this. He wanted nothing more to do with the rich, entitled twat. And then John looked at Sherlock for a long minute.

 

He started laughing at the look on Sherlock’s face (one of betrayal and exhaustion and adoration), tucking in the other boy against his side and pulling the blanket back over them. 

 

“This doesn’t mean I’m not still basically pissed at you.” 

 

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to behave myself tomorrow.” John kissed Sherlock’s forehead, Sherlock surprisingly kissed him back on the lips, and then the two boys drifted off to sleep. 

 

After all, they had plenty of time to think about what had just happened in the next few days. They were even sharing a sleeping bag.


	79. Outside Festival - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: outside festival!

 

They had never played an outside festival before but it seemed to be going well. Well apart from the fact that John wasn't sure he was going to be able to get out from behind the drums after their performance was done because watching Sherlock move his hips had had quite the effect on him.

It seemed the bigger the crowd, the more John really liked watching Sherlock singing.

Or rather, watching his arse perform.

It moved back and forth with the easy way Sherlock controlled his hips. It sent the audience mad and it sent John mad. But Sherlock could never know that. He couldn't possibly know just for the fact that John kept his staring only to when they were performing and he was safely behind Sherlock's back. Sherlock was very perceptive and clever, but not even he had eyes in the back of his head. 

But, God, Sherlock was really going for it this performance. It was through muscle memory alone that John could even play through the haze of arousal that had descended over him. He hadn't made one mistake. 

Sherlock's song ended and they came to the part where the others got to share some of the limelight that inevitably was focused on the lead singer. The other members kept playing their instruments to provide a little soundtrack/

 

“I know you've come primarily to see me, but there are other members of my band. Greg Lestrade, on the guitar. Mycroft on the bass. And John Watson, formerly of a military something or other, on the drums,” Sherlock said. The crowd cheered and laughed. “You probably really can't see John where he's sitting. Cameraman, will you follow me and put him on the big screen?” Sherlock said.   
  
He walked toward John, who was still drumming and was now feeling an increasing amount of panic. He hoped his drums would sufficiently cover him.  
  
“John Watson,” Sherlock said, presenting him with a flick of his wrist. The crowd cheered again and John smiled uneasily. “Anything to say to the nice people?” Sherlock asked, bringing the microphone down.  
  
“Uh, hello,” John said.  
  
“Eloquently put, John. Lovely playing. Gives a great beat for me to dance to, doesn't it?” Sherlock asked. He brought the microphone down to John's face again.  
  
“Yeah,” John said. He wasn't much of a liar anyway.  
  
“It's amazing what a little press coverage can reveal. Did you know that in every performance photo in which you and I both appear, you're staring at me? More specifically, my arse?” Sherlock said.  
  
The crowd silenced before a solitary whooping sound was heard and everyone joined in.

John didn't have anything to say into the microphone when Sherlock brought it down.  
  
“No comment? Probably wise with all these journalists around. But, John. One more thing,” Sherlock said. He brought a hand down to the back of John's head and turned it up toward him. He smirked and then leaned down and kissed him. It was an absolutely filthy kiss. There was just _so much_ lip when it came to Sherlock that John's lips worked overtime to get to it all. And then there was the tongue and the wet inside of Sherlock's mouth.   
  
Greg had stopped playing and was staring in shock. Mycroft was still strumming out his part of the melody, ever the unflappable even though he was furious.   
  
A close up of John and Sherlock kissing was on the screens and the crowd was cheering itself hoarse. Cameras were snapping ceaselessly and the internet was being alerted to the fact that _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were finally kissing_.   
  
“I think that's enough for now,” Sherlock said. John had never seen Sherlock's face look quite like it was now. Heated. Aroused. “You should probably pick up your drumsticks and let go off my arse now, John.”  
  
John had not realised that he had for the first time in his history in the band, fucked up his playing.  
  
“And let that be a lesson to you, John. All this time you've been shagging your little groupies, you could have been shagging me,” Sherlock said. He turned to the audience. “And if any of you have the incredibly stupid idea of trying to get into John Watson's bed henceforth, I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed because he is mine. Isn't that right, John?” Sherlock brought the microphone down to John's face once more.  
  
“Yes.”


	80. Outside Festival - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on these prompts, so check out the other entries first for more sense-making!

The remaining days of John's leave passed like that, with Sherlock and John tucked away in their bedroom, emerging every so often to go to their favourite haunts in London.  Regent's Park, Speedy's, Angelo's.  Every place that held meaning to them was visited.  And in the background, watching with looks of smug satisfaction, were Mycroft, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson, though they spent their time bickering about who had won the bet.  
  
"Based on what they said, it was clearly John," Mrs. Hudson said one afternoon, as they all shared tea in her apartment.  "He was the one who made the first move."  
  
"The first move?" Greg responded, incredulously.  "Mrs. Hudson, you're _wrong_ about this.  If anything, it was Sherlock."  
  
"Gregory," Mycroft said in a warning tone.  "It was neither one of them.  Or both, depending on how you want to look at it.  The facts cannot be manipulated to any of our advantages."  
  
"Oh, sod off," Greg said.   
  
"Greg!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, before turning to Mycroft herself.  "But he is right, Mycroft.  We need to have a winner."  
  
"I think there will be something else for us to wager on," he replied, slyly.  Turning to face them, the three began to discuss.  
  
Sherlock and John left the flat on the eve of John's last full day in London, the sun shining and an unsuspected breeze gently moving through the city.  The door to the flat closed behind them and the two of them exchanged bracing looks.   
  
"You-" John started.  
  
"I know," Sherlock interrupted.  
  
"Sherlock, would you let me-"  
  
"No need.  I know."  
  
"Is this going to be a repeat of the road trip?" John growled as they began to walk, hand in hand, down the street.  "I want to do something, and you act out because there's a part of you that doesn't want to?"  
  
"I just don't understand why you'd want to go to a festival outdoors?  When you only have one full day left after today, why spend it at something as dull as a festival?"  
  
"Because I think it would be something fun," John said simply.  "And it's a place where we can get some good pictures for my album."  
  
"But we could stay inside in our bed," Sherlock said whining.   
  
"Or, we could venture outdoors for a little bit," John said, trying not to get too frustrated.  "We can still be in a bed tomorrow, Sherlock.  But we need to get _out_."  The truth was that John very much wanted to stay in bed all day with Sherlock.  They had certainly had a lot of fun in bed those past few days and Sherlock had quickly learned how to maneuver around John's cock with both his hand and mouth.  It was no time at all before John was coming undone almost immediately at Sherlock's quick and masterful work.   The blowjob he had received that morning had been even better than the last and each one now was beyond perfect from a technical standpoint.  Sherlock was nothing if not a perfectionist.  
  
The night before had ventured into new territory between them, involving John's fingers and Sherlock's arse.  The results had been astounding.   
  
Still, John craved more.  He could not help it.  He had never gone this long without sex before.  Whenever he felt sexual frustration before he had left for Afghanistan, he would go to the pub or ring whatever woman he was seeing and would take care of it.  But leaving London had changed everything.  Try as he might, he could not get Sherlock off of his mind and though he had been flirted with while at the base, the thought of being with someone who wasn't Sherlock become unmanageable.  He could not even stomach it.   
  
But now that he and Sherlock were together, everything changed.  John could look at Sherlock's body, crave it, and then have it.  The only thing the they had not done was, as Sherlock kept referring to it, the sexual intercourse.  And as desperately as John wanted to have it, he had to remind himself that Sherlock was a virgin in that respect and that he should not add any pressure to the act, especially when John was about to leave for another year and a half.  _Let it happen on its own_ , he kept having to remind himself.  
  
That was a primary reason why he wanted to get out of the flat and go to this festival.  If they continued to be tangled up in bed sheets, John would start to lose his mind and would probably stop being a gentleman.  The last thing he wanted was to make Sherlock feel like he needed to have sex with John because it was expected.  Hopefully some fresh air would help him clear his head and aid in him keeping his cool.   
  
Sherlock seemed very disgruntled at having to be outside and not still touching John, but he was trying very hard not to show it.  _Do not make another unpleasant experience for him or you will test the tenacity of this relationship and put an unnecessary strain on it before you are separated._  
  
They arrived at the festival and John's face immediately lit up in excitement.  He couldn't help himself; this looked _fun_.  He was so enraptured by the sights and sounds that he didn't even notice Sherlock taking out his phone and taking a clandestine photo.   
  
That was how the day progressed, with John pulling Sherlock from one attraction to the next, from food vendor to food vendor, from musical act to musical act, and all the while never noticing Sherlock's phone positioned to capture the moments.  And Sherlock, for once, was completely oblivious to his surroundings, missing the familiar faces of his landlady, his brother, and the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard who just happened to also be at the same festival, in very close proximity.   
  
The sun was just starting to set when John caught Sherlock looking at him with a rather soft expression on his face.   
  
"What?" John asked, smiling almost nervously.   
  
"You are keeping yourself restrained," Sherlock answered.  
  
"What?" John asked in confusion.  "Sherlock, I'm just standing here.  Not doing anything."  
  
"Yes, John, that's the point.  You're not doing anything."  
  
"What should I be doing?"  
  
Sherlock took a step closer, bringing their faces together so that their lips were barely centimetres apart.  "You should be taking me to our home and taking me to our bed, John.  You've shown such self restraint.  You don't need to anymore."  
  
"Sherlock," John breathed, his eyes trying to focus.  "Are you..."  
  
"Of course I'm sure.  I did not just suffer through this festival without any sort of reward."  
  
"You fucking git," John breathed before they began to kiss, the sky darkening  
 behind them.  When John finally had the will power to pull their lips apart, he asked, "Do you really want to?"  
  
"Yes, John.  And I appreciate you taking the time to make sure that I was ready.  I am.  Truly.  I'm ready for-"  
  
"Please don't say-"  
  
"The sexual intercourse."


	81. Outside Festival - Anne

Sherlock knew that John wanted to take him to the outdoor festival for their weekly date because he didn’t exactly have a lot of pocket money. Or any money. 

 

It had taken Sherlock most of the summer to realize this and remember it, as money wasn’t exactly something that Sherlock thought about, but now he finally had it down. John was broke; money was important. Sherlock certainly wouldn’t have thought so if it wasn’t such a concern to John. After all, he thought money was boring, and he knew his parents had set a huge amount aside for him. He would have no trouble paying for uni, and he would have plenty to live off of once he graduated. 

 

John, on the other hand, cooked for Sherlock instead of buying him food from restaurants, took him for walks in the park instead of to movies, and made him homemade gifts instead of purchasing them.

 

And Sherlock loved being with John. In recent months, he would eat nothing but John’s cooking, he enjoyed their conversations while walking in the park, and he cried whenever John gave him something. If he was being honest, Sherlock felt guilty for being so entitled. Hell, he had even asked why John made him fondue with hot dogs instead of steak before he had grown wise. Now he understood. 

 

John didn’t even have any money for uni. Sherlock hadn’t talked to him about it in almost a year, and the last time it had come up, John had said he would take care of it so angrily that Sherlock had immediately dropped the subject. Their mutual avoidance of the subject was a bit unfortunate, for while Sherlock didn’t care about expensive gifts and spendy dates, he did care about John’s education, and university started soon. 

 

In retrospect, bribing the ferris wheel attendant to turn the whole ride off while John and Sherlock were at the top so they could talk probably wasn’t the best idea he had ever had, but they did need to have a discussion, and Sherlock was going to make sure they did. When the ride screeched to a stop, John’s face fall as if the frozen ride were his fault. 

 

“Ah, great. We’re stuck.” John Watson peered over the edge of his cart, quickly relaxed, and pulled Sherlock close to steal a long kiss. “Might not be so bad.” 

 

Sherlock returned the kiss gladly, grinning widely as John continued to shower him with attention.  _Wait_. This was not the point of his orchestrated ferris wheel malfunction. 

 

“No, not too bad.” John hummed at that, his lips preoccupied by Sherlock’s neck. “John?“ 

 

“What, Sherlock?” the boy asked in a low voice, growling into the pale skin before him. 

 

“How are you paying for university?” John released Sherlock gently, swallowing thickly and setting his hands in his lap.

 

“Sherlock…” 

 

“You _are_ going to university, correct?”

 

“I told you I got into Queen Mary’s.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow in suspicion, deciding once and for all not to let the matter die. 

 

“Yes, and how are you going to pay for it?” John didn’t immediately reply, and the tension between them consequently increased at a steady rate until it became a tangible presence. Sherlock was getting restless, twiddling his thumbs and rubbing at a patch of dry skin on his arm until it was an irritated pink color. 

 

“I… Sherlock. Fuck… I mean, I was going to tell you eventually. Um… I joined the army.” 

 

“What?”

 

“I joined the army. They’re paying my tuition.” 

 

“Who is?” 

 

“The army. The army is paying my tuition.” 

 

“No. Absolutely not.”

 

“Hey… This isn’t about you.” 

 

“I would have paid your tuition.” 

 

“Sherlock, I was never going to let your parents pay my tuition. Come on…” 

 

“You’re not  _going_ anywhere. I’m not letting you go.” 

 

“Well… first I’m going to school. To Queen Mary’s, remember? And then… well… I don’t know. I go wherever they send me.” John shrugged, clasping his hands together and inching closer to Sherlock again. There was a very good reason he had postponed telling his boyfriend what he had decided upon. The newly enlisted soldier slowly reached an arm around Sherlock, hoping that the stubborn boy wouldn’t be an arse and pull away again. "I have to do this, Sherlock. I don’t have a choice. And… I want to.” 

 

“You could die.” 

 

“I’m not going to die. They might not even send me anywhere dangerous. And regardless, I’m coming back to you.” 

 

Sherlock blinked away tears and buried himself into John’s arms, his powerful mind already beginning to contemplate the consequences of the decision John had made. He took one final look out over the festival, which was now ablaze with bright bursts of light, and then he signaled to the man below them to get the ride moving again. 

 

When they finally stopped going in circles, John led Sherlock into the sprightly world that had cast such a mismatched warmth on them during their somber conversation. They drifted into the noises and the smells and the rush of energy that accompanied the greasy food and the cheap rides of an outside festival with their eyes wide open.

 

The future lay ahead, a thick maze of doubt, and the feeling was so devastating that Sherlock felt simultaneously dizzy and nauseous. Luckily, the potent present soon overwhelmed an uncertain future.

 

And for one night, within the shelter of carnival music, John and Sherlock were safe.


	82. Fireworks - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: Fireworks.

Sherlock coming into his own after meeting John had been quite the experience, not only for Sherlock himself.   
  
Mycroft had watched carefully from the sidelines. Well, mostly the sidelines. He had had to step in and whisk John away to location unknown to test him; was he of the right constitution to be able to handle unexpected and threatening situations and would he ever betray Sherlock for monetary gain? Both were of great import for a person who had the potential of becoming someone significant in his brother's life.  
  
John had passed in flying colours.  
  
“So, you want to endeavor to be Sherlock's friend,” Mycroft had said. It was a little darker in his parent's garage than he'd thought it would be. Maybe he shouldn't have pulled the door down. No matter.   
  
“What does endeavor mean?” John asked, interrupting the curious way he was looking around the garage.   
  
“It means to try,” Mycroft said rather haughtily. It was clear to him that John wasn't as clever as him. But then again, no one was.  
  
“Oh. I want to try to be Sherlock's friend?” John asked, in confusion.   
  
“Yes. Don't you?” Mycroft said, his gaze locking with John's. It seemed like it would be a quick failure for John.

“I'm already his friend. I don't need to try,” John said. He was starting to get bored and antsy. He had come to see Sherlock and not to be stopped on his walk up the drive way to hide in a garage that probably had a lot of spiders in it. John didn't like spiders one bit. They were creepy and crawly and he had heard they could go into your ear and lay eggs.  
  
“Oh,” Mycroft said. He was taken aback. He gathered himself into a stern look again.  
  
“Can I go to the house now?” John asked.   
  
“No. Sherlock is my little brother and it's my job as big brother to look after him. It's your job as his friend to look after him, too. But I can pay you for it. If you tell me where you go when you play and what you play, I'll pay you one pound each time,” Mycroft said.  
  
John wrinkled his nose. “Like spying?” he asked.  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft said.  
  
“Like in James Bond movies?” John asked.  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft said.  
  
Spying on someone sounded very exciting to John. What a great game that could be! But he didn't want to spy on Sherlock. The idea of it gave him a funny feeling in his tummy. “No, I don't want to,” John said.  
  
“Do it,” Mycroft pressed. He had two conflicting feelings; he wanted John to pass this test and to be allowed to be friends with Sherlock, but he also wanted John to do what he said because he had said it.  
  
“No!” John shouted. He found the side door to the garage and bolted out. He ran up the drive way and knocked on the door.   
  
“You're late. I've been waiting,” Sherlock whined when he opened the door almost immediately.   
  
“Sorry,” John said even though it hadn't been his fault at all.  
  
“I want to go upthairth. I'm learning about and documenting the phythiognomy of beeth through art,” Sherlock said. He had been drawing bees all day.   
  
John had no idea what Sherlock meant but he was sure he had a much better idea than that.  
  
“Sherlock, we should play _spies_. We could spy on _Mycroft_. Like _James Bond_ ,” John said.  
  
It was Sherlock's turn to not understand what John had meant. “Who'th Jameth Bond?” he asked.  
  
“He's an agent. Sometimes he meets spies and it's really cool,” John said.

“Thpy on Mycroft?” Sherlock said. His eyebrows had raised with the exciting possibility of it. 

“Yeth!” Sherlock said. 

They spied on him all afternoon. Mycroft knew what they were doing but ever since meeting John, Sherlock had lit up like a firework in the night and he couldn't bare the thought of taking away his fun.

 


	83. Fireworks - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on these prompts so read the others first if you haven't!

__  
"Okay," John said, his stomach knotting up in anticipation.  "Yeah, I'd like that."  
  
"Good," Sherlock said, tugging John's hand and trying to leave the festival as quickly as possible, wanting to get home.   
  
"Sherlock, wait," John said with a soft laugh.  "I'm as eager as you are-"  
  
"Impossible."  
  
"Alright," John said in resignation, though he did not mean it.  "I'm _almost_ as eager as you are.  But Sherlock, there are going to be fireworks.  We can't leave yet.  Don't you want to see them?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Sherlock..."  
  
"John."  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Don't start sulking."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"Of course you're not."  
  
Sherlock was, of course, sulking.  His arms were crossed and his bottom lip was protruding slightly.  He was restless.  He wanted to get out of there and go home and be with John.  It was the only thing on his mind and there was no option to think of anything else.  
  
John was torn.  On the one hand, he very much wanted to get Sherlock home and into bed as quickly as was physically possible, but on the other, he wanted to take his time.  It was an inevitability that they would be having sex that evening and John wanted to build up the tension even more.  In addition, he still wanted to be a gentleman, an idea that he needed to keep reminding himself of every few seconds.  
  
"Buy me an ice cream, and I will stay," Sherlock said suddenly, a mischievous idea popping into his head.  Ice cream had been a seductive motivator last time between them.  Perhaps he would be able to spur John's exit from this festival even easier.  
  
"Nice try," John said grinning.  "I know you too well for that, Sherlock.  It's not going to happen."  
  
This only served to put Sherlock in an even worse mood, something that John was keenly aware of.  It was a dangerous line he was walking, not leaving yet and watching the sulk intensify.  John looked up at the sky and willed it to get darker quickly so that the fireworks could begin and they could leave.   
  
"I just want one picture," he said in explanation.  "Just one."  
  
"Why?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow quizzically.  
  
"Because it'll be nice to see some sort of explosion that isn't gunfire or a bomb light up the sky."  
  
The words hung in the air and Sherlock felt quieted by the statement.  "We will stay," he said, feeling a bit uncomfortable by the raw honesty and power of John's comment.   
  
"Just for-"  
  
"For as long as you want."  
  
  
For as long as John wanted turned out to be about four minutes.  After he had snapped a few pictures on his phone (while Sherlock continued to subtly take pictures of John without him noticing), John moved his eyes from the lights in the sky to Sherlock's face.  The way that the multicoloured hues showered across the sky reflected on Sherlock's face, the reds and blues and greens dancing on his pale skin.   
  
"Let's go," John said suddenly, wanting to be home and having that pale skin beneath him.  
  
"What?"  Sherlock asked, taken off-guard by  
  
"Home.  Now."  
  
Sherlock did not hesitate.  Taking each other's hands, they two left the festival, walking as quickly as possible without breaking into a jog or a run.  Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Mycroft had seen the task through, staying at the festival at a reasonable distance away.  The looks of desperate need and urgency on Sherlock's and John's faces were plainly obvious, leading Mrs. Husdon to giggle, Greg to clap in enthusiasm, and Mycroft to roll his eyes and put his face in his hand, while secretly pleased for his brother.  
  
There was an energy bouncing back and forth between the detective and the army doctor unlike anything that had ever existed before.  It was charged and heated, sparks of electricity coursing through them and their intertwined fingers and clasped hands.  
  
"And you're sure?" John asked again when they finally made it back into their bedroom, their hands roaming across one another's clothing, about to unbutton, unfasten, and unzip.   
  
"Positive," Sherlock responded.  "Now stop being such a gentleman and _fuck_ me."  
  
It took every last ounce of self restraint not to take Sherlock then and there, but John needed to do the thing properly.  He owed it to Sherlock.   
  
  
The first time they had sex was slow and passionate.  
  
John had let every moment linger, slowly opening Sherlock up with his fingers, continually asking if Sherlock felt alright, to which Sherlock would reply in a moan that yes, he was very much alright.  Every touch was exact, precise, and meaningful.  Sherlock was on his back, looking up at John in pure adoration and excitement.  When John finally pushed himself inside Sherlock, both of them moaned out in ecstatic relief.  It was finally happening.  John moved slowly, gently, careful not to wreck Sherlock or cause any unnecessary pain while Sherlock's mind completely shut down.  The experience was not something he had been prepared for and his every sense was focused on the feel of John's cock pushing in and out of him.  When Sherlock came, it was as if he had never come before.  John had given a few very well placed thrusts against Sherlock's prostate.  The fireworks they had seen that night paled in comparison to the ones that were consuming Sherlock body's and mind as his cock pulsed, shooting his come up and smearing both his stomach and John's.  John did not last long after that, moaning out Sherlock's name as he came and collapsed on top of Sherlock's body.  
  
It had been perfect, everything that John had wanted and hoped for.  There was a romantic and intimate buzz that filled their bedroom as Sherlock and John, both with post-orgasmic and giddy smiles on their lips, drifted to sleep, holding each other.  
  
  
The second time they had sex, the following morning, was sleepy and sloppy, Sherlock rolling on top of John and pushing his arse down on top of John's cock.  Their bodies slid against one another, just starting to wake up.  Sherlock and John came within seconds of each other, both of them still exhausted from the previous evening but very much in tune with the lethargic movements of the other.  
  
The third time they had sex, that afternoon, had been entirely Sherlock's doing.  
  
"John, I want you to fuck me now."  
  
John was sitting in his armchair, reading the paper, and looked across at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised.  "Sherlock, we need to give you a rest.  I don't want to hurt you."  
  
"No."  
  
"Sherlock, you don't get to-"  
  
"No."  
  
"It's not going to happen."  
  
Sherlock, however, had other plans.  He needed to use his physical attributes to his advantage and his best one was his arse.  With a less-than-subtle brush of his hand, he pushed his sheet music off the nearby stand, scattering the pages across the floor between the two armchairs.   
  
"Oh, how clumsy of me," Sherlock said in an exaggerated tone.  "I'd better clean this mess up."  
  
John knew exactly what Sherlock was doing, but still he was not immune to Sherlock on his hands and knees on the floor, his arse pushed backwards, deliberately moving and flaunting itself in front of John.   
  
"Oh you fucker," John growled, throwing the paper to the side and taking Sherlock on the floor in a rough manner, forgetting he needed to be gentle.  Sherlock did not mind the urgent and desperate need John was showing with each forceful thrust into his arse.  It felt good, and not only because Sherlock had gotten his way.   
  
The fourth time they had sex was raw and animalistic.  
  
The fifth time they had sex was desperate, hard, and fast, John pushing Sherlock up against the wall.  
  
The sixth time they had sex was naughty and delicious, Sherlock straddling John's lap as John sat on his armchair, riding his cock and rocking his own arse back and forth, bringing them both to a rather sensational climax.  
  
The seventh time they had sex was that night, in bed, was like it had been their first time, the night previously.  Neither one wanted to face the fact that the next day, John would be leaving.  As their bodies moved together, the world around them faded into the background.  The next day would come; there was nothing they could do to stop it.  All they could focus on in that moment was each other, and when Sherlock and John came, it was together.  They both saw fireworks. 


	84. Fireworks - Anne

Vibrant flecks of fire illuminated the night sky, vanquishing patches of darkness and filling Sherlock with an unfamiliar sense of joyful awe. 

 

He had never been so euphoric, and somehow, merely his state of mind gave meaning to the otherwise insignificant explosions that were banging their way into existence.

 

There really was quite a bit of stimuli involved with a firework’s show, what with the lights and the sounds and the smell, and it both fulfilled his need for excitement and overwhelmed him. The large amount of alcohol he had consumed was probably messing with his mind. Maybe he shouldn’t have had so much to drink, but it was summer. Why bloody not? 

 

“Beer?” a strange voice asked, thick with intoxication. 

 

“Fine.” Sherlock kept staring at the fireworks, but he heard the characteristic pop and fizz of a can being opened and felt the slippery cold as the man slid it into his hand. 

 

“You’re Sherlock Holmes.” Very interesting. Not a stranger then. 

 

“Correct. And you are?” John Watson. Sherlock remembered the voice, and although he hadn’t turned to face his assailant, he could picture the strong arms and the staunch eyes that had made their way into his thoughts just a bit more than the features of any acquaintance had the right to. 

 

“John Watson. Captain of Queen Mary’s rugby team. We’ve met.” 

 

“Have we?” Yes, they had. When Mycroft had whisked the young man off to the hospital to check up on his boyfriend, another manly rugby player who had just happened to land the wrong way in a pile up of players.

 

“Well… yeah. When Lestrade broke his arm at one of our games. I believe your brother brought you by. A rather unpleasant bloke, if I remember correctly.” 

 

“You’re correct. And I remember.” 

 

“Ah, brilliant.” Was this bloke nervous? He sounded nervous. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t responded the way he had hoped. 

 

“Can I help you, John Watson?” Sherlock asked in a curious and impatient voice, sipping his beer and finally averting his eyes from the sky to cast a sidelong glance in John’s direction. Ah, yes. The attractive athlete was just as attractive as he had remembered. 

 

“Have a beer with me.”

 

“I am having a beer with you.” Sherlock replied carefully, and John chuckled lightly, nodding as he conceded his agreement. 

 

“I can’t win with you, can I?”  _Win?_ Were they playing a game now? A game of furtive glances, awkward mumbles, and fruitless conversation. 

 

“What are you trying to win?” 

 

John shrugged and Sherlock blushed despite himself, returning his attention to the fireworks. They would be ending soon, and whatever madness was going on between him and John Watson would be shattered and the pieces forgotten. 

 

“You told me I liked men.”

 

“I know. I was there. You opposed my assertion quite vehemently.”

 

“Well, you were right about the whole gay thing. I mean, I like girls too, but yeah…” John’s voice trailed off uncomfortably and Sherlock wiggled in what he hoped was an imperceptible manner. “Thanks…” 

 

“You’re welcome…?” Sherlock cleared his throat and smirked, hoping that John would get to the point even though he certainly hadn’t so far. "That all?” 

 

“Um… Well… I…” John stuttered helplessly for a few seconds, turning an embarrassing shade of pink, and then Sherlock finally relented and gave him a light, playful peck on the lips. 

 

“There. Better? Now stop distracting me. I’m trying to watch the fireworks.” John’s jaw fell open and he couldn’t banish the look of almost childlike surprise from his face.  _Jesus_. Sherlock had  _kissed_ him. Okay, so it hadn’t been the most romantic kiss, but still their lips had met, and now Sherlock was grabbing his hand with easy affection. John’s lips were tingling still, as if Sherlock’s touch had sparked tiny bursts of flame that singed his reason and began lighting up his heart. “They’re beautiful…” Sherlock murmured, finally letting his pure emotions and the alcohol in his blood get the best of him.

 

“Beautiful,” John echoed, taking the opportunity to work an arm around Sherlock’s waist and hold him close. Sherlock hummed softly as the warmth of John’s chest seeped into his back, and relaxed as they both continued to watch the colors fill the sky with splashes of light. The show proceeded for a few more enchanted minutes and then the night above them returned to inky blackness. 

 

“Dinner?” The question was posed in such an unobtrusive fashion that Sherlock almost laughed. John was impossibly endearing and he clearly didn’t even know it. 

“I’m not hungry,” the genius answered immediately. John’s gaze didn’t waver, his slightly unsure eyes meeting Sherlock’s persistently until the other boy gave in with a content sigh. “Okay, let’s have dinner.”


	85. Two Bathing Suits - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt is: Two Bathing Suits.  
> (And yes, am aware that we are late late late. Also there's more coming up to make the 31 ficlets each. PLEASE HOLD.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another part of my accidental Kidlock series that started with Two Passports and A Trip to the Zoo!

Mrs. Holmes wasn't quite sure what had happened when she came home from her little impromptu shopping trip. She had gone to get Sherlock a yellow set of pyjamas to celebrate the success of the bee trip but had come home with much more.   
  
Of course, children her son's age grew like weeds and Sherlock even more so. He was going to end up being taller than Mycroft if he kept going at the rate he was. The legs of Sherlock's trousers always seemed to be just a little bit too short. It was only natural that she be practical and pick up some new things for him.   
  
But how she had ended up shopping for John, too, was a mystery. He wasn't her son although it felt like he was now that he had been spending so much time with them. She or Mr. Holmes had been tucking him far more often than his own parents had and he'd been eating them out of house and home with no financial compensation from that Watsons. Not that they minded, it was a delight to see a boy Sherlock's age tucking in to food with enthusiasm. It was an added bonus that John eating around Sherlock seemed to automatically mean Sherlock taking a few extra bites of food.   
  
Having John around had altered Mrs. Holmes' sense of who her family consisted of. John was a charming boy who had quite a few stories to tell (all of which were centered around his adventures with Sherlock) and he was undeniably very clever, even though his own cleverness was a little harder to spot with Sherlock and Mycroft being so uniquely gifted. Mrs. Holmes was of the opinion that John would greatly benefit from the same education that she had been able to offer her own sons. A public school with a far better reputation than the school John was destined to go to if he went back to staying with his parents. She had checked. She was adamantly against it.   
  
And, truth be told, she didn't want to deal with the complete and utter meltdown she knew Sherlock would have once he found out he wasn't going to be going to the same school as John anymore once summer was over. She didn't want to see the look on John's face either when faced with the fact that not only would he have to go back to his parents house but he would lose his best friend.   
  
No, she would sponsor John's education. Money was not an issue.   
  
“Back from shopping, my dear?” Mr. Holmes asked, coming into the kitchen and kissing her cheek. “Goodness, you went a little mad didn't you?” he said, looking over the bags. “Sherlock doesn't need this much, darling,” he continued softly.  
  
“Oh, I know he doesn't. Half of it is for John,” she said, pulling out two bathing suits. One plain blue for Sherlock and a striped one for John.   
  
“Aha,” Mr. Holmes said in understanding. He had wondered how his wife had been feeling about their constant little house guest. “Is he staying with us then?” he asked.  
  
“I should think so, until school starts and we ship them off,” she said.  
  
“I don't imagine Sherlock will be very happy going to a different school from John,” Mr. Holmes said, testing the waters.   
  
“No, I don't imagine he would be. So let's spare him that,” she said.  
  
“Yes. Let's,” Mr. Holmes replied.  
  
And in those words, it was settled that Sherlock and John would not be separated and that John Watson was under their care even if not in the eyes of the law.

The pair smiled at each other, happy in the knowledge that they had just invited a bit more permanent mayhem into their lives. Their smiles only widened when they heard Sherlock shouting for them at the top of his voice and two pairs of feet running across the house.

“ _Mummy! Mummy!_ _”_ __  
  
“Yes, Sherlock?” Mrs. Holmes replied.  
  
“Can we have bees in the garden?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“I don't think so, darling,” she said.   
  
That was not the kind of mayhem she wanted.  



	86. Two Bathing Suits - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story using these prompts so check out her other entries before reading this one if you haven't!

The morning arrived, as John and Sherlock knew it eventually would,thought neither of them wanted to acknowledge it.  Sunlight flooded the bedroom which seemed to only add insult to incredible injury.  It was a dark day for the two of them.  Surely the weather should have reflected the gloom of their situation with dark clouds and rain, not unabashed brilliant sunlight.   
  
"Sherlock," John said softly, his body waking immediately with the sun.  His stomach was clenched tightly in knots and his brain was already starting to shift back into army mode.  He needed to get up, get dressed, and get going.  There wasn't time to stay in bed with Sherlock, no matter how much he wanted it.  Things needed to get done and there was a flight John needed to make.  Time was not on their side.  
  
"No," Sherlock groaned. He was reluctantly waking up, but the realisation of what he would be losing that day slammed into his stomach and made it physically impossible for Sherlock to get out of bed.  All he was physically capable of doing was throwing an arm over John's waist in a vain attempt to keep him in bed.   
  
"Sherlock, I have to get dressed and ready," John said, pain and regret seeping into his words.  "I have to."  
  
"You don't have to," Sherlock said, pulling his body closer in desperation. "You can just...stay here.  With me.  Don't you want to do that?"  
  
John frowned.  "Sherlock, that's not fair to do to me.  You know I want to stay here, but I have a job to do.  I _have_ to go."  
  
"But you don't," Sherlock said, and there was a pleading tone in his voice that gripped tightly at John's heart.  "You can stay.  We'll find another doctor to go over there.  John, stay."  
  
"Sherlock-"  
  
" _Please_."  
  
The word resonated through the room and John found that his eyes were starting to prickle with tears.  No, he would not allow himself to cry.  If he started now, he would never stop, and that would make it even more difficult on both of them.  John needed to be strong and brave, for both of them.  
  
"The one time you manage to have manners and be polite and it's the one time I can't give you what you're asking for," John said.  He had meant for it to come out as lighthearted to alleviate the tension.  Instead, it just came out as sad and melancholy.   
  
"What can I do to change it?  What can I do to get you to stay?" Sherlock asked desperately.  He gasped when a thought struck him.  "John! We never... We never made the photo album for you!"  
  
John's jaw dropped.  "Shit," he breathed.  "I meant to do it yesterday but..."  
  


He did not need to finish the sentence.  There day had been spent shagging instead of doing any of the things John had intended.  


"But what we did was worth it," John said with a strong sense of conviction.  "I wouldn't change any single moment of what we did yesterday, Sherlock.  I just...won't have a photo album.  That's all."  


"Send me the pictures," Sherlock said.  "I will take care of it.  I'll mail it to you."  He could do that.  He could be a good boyfriend, even if they were far away.  Sherlock Holmes could be someone who could be good for John Watson.  Or at least, he could try to be.  


"Okay," John said, still attempting to ignore the tightness in his throat and in his chest, moved by the offer.  "Sherlock..."

"You have to get out of bed."  


"I do."

Sherlock nodded and slowly pulled his arm off of John, his entire being screaming in protest.  Now that he had John, the last thing he wanted was to let him go.  He could not process how lonely he would be so his brain chose instead to block it out and ignore it.  The pain would come later, he was sure.

 

In what seemed like no time at all, John's bag was packed, his army fatigues were on, and he was standing at the door of the flat, bracing himself for what he was sure to break his heart. 

"Sherlock..." he said, unsure of what to say from there. 

"I know," Sherlock replied sadly.  "It is only 18 months.  We've done it before."

"We have."  


"We can do it again?" 

The question in Sherlock's words cut at John as he saw the insecure look in Sherlock's eyes.  "Of course we can."

They stood there, looking at each other, soaking in and memorising every detail of the other's face, trying to stretch out these last moments before John walked out the door and into the car that was waiting downstairs.  Sherlock would not walk John to the car.  He would never be able to bring himself back inside.   


"I love you."

The words came from both Sherlock and John simultaneously, and the emotion behind them propelled their bodies forward, their lips pressing against each other in sweet desperation.  This was the kiss that would need to last a year and a half.   


With all of the will power he could muster, John pulled back and looked at Sherlock.  "Take care of yourself."

"You as well."

"I love you, Sherlock."  


"I love you too, John."

"Right.  Bye."

"Goodbye."

John nodded as he took one last sweeping look at Sherlock's face before he turned and walked out the door, closing it softly behind him.  


Time seemed to stop. 

Sherlock stood there, looking at the closed door, not a single thought weaving its way into his head.  His brain had jammed with the closing of the door.  Should he go to the window to watch John get into the car?  Would he be able to cope with seeing John drive off?  Watching him walk away had been impossible enough.  He couldn't go to the window.  


He had to go to the window. 

Sherlock moved with graceful speed to look down at John who had just emerged onto the sidewalk.  Slowly, John looked up at the window before getting into the car.  He smiled at Sherlock who attempted to smile back.  John moved into the car.  The door closed.  Sherlock's eyes trailed it as it moved down the street and out of sight.  


It was another hour before Sherlock could move from the spot, his eyes still focusing on the spot in the distance where the car had disappeared.  Moving around the flat, Sherlock felt like a shell of himself, a ghost.  He was walking, but was there any point behind it?  His limbs were moving, transporting him, but for what reason?

Somehow, Sherlock ended up back in his bedroom, sitting on the foot of the bed.  He could not lie down on it, wrapping himself up in the sheets.  They would smell of John and Sherlock's brain would not permit that to happen just yet.  The pain was still too fresh, too raw.  As he sat there, looking blankly ahead of him, his eyes seemed to fall on a bag.  His bag from their holiday to the lake house.  He had never unpacked upon returning home sine he and John became very busy in each other.  


Sherlock could not identify the impulse to unpack his bag.  Maybe he just needed to busy his hands and to occupy his mind with something that didn't scream John's name loudly in his head and didn't wail loudly about his absence.  The items in the bag were just articles of clothing.  Safe.  


Tossing the dirtied shirts and pants and trousers over his shoulder, Sherlock wondered if Mrs. Hudson would give him a hard time about doing all of this.  Probably not, given the circumstances.  What was more important was that it was working.  He was not really thinking about John so much (he was always thinking of John, but he was focusing on the clothing and detaching himself from it as much as he could).   


And then Sherlock found their bathing suits from their day at the beach.

With the force of an oncoming train, pain beyond anything Sherlock had ever felt in his life crashed into him with such force that Sherlock was bowled over.  He sank to his knees, clutching the bathing suits in his hand, the memories from that pivotal day rocking him to his core. 

John was gone.  Their only way of communicating was through letters.  They would not see each other again for a year and a half.

Sherlock wept.


	87. Two Bathing Suits - Anne

Sherlock had made it very clear that he wasn’t interested in going swimming. 

 

He had capitulated in regards to taking the trip up to his parent’s lake house with John, but he was  _not_ going swimming. That was final. 

 

Sherlock didn’t like getting wet, he didn’t like the frizzy mess his hair warped into after being soaked in lake water, and he didn’t like occasionally getting attacked by leeches. He huffed and smirked derisively as John packed a swimsuit for their trip, for while he didn’t mind seeing John in a swimsuit one bit, he knew the balance of probability was that John wasn’t going to go swimming either, not if Sherlock wouldn’t join him.

 

Spending time with Sherlock hadn’t been part of John’s plans for the single week off he got in the summer. He loved his quirky flatmate, sure, but John needed at least a good week of sleeping, shagging, and relaxing, and he was finally going to get it. 

 

Until Sherlock invited him to the Holmes' lake house, that is. 

 

John had never known someone rich enough to own a lake house before, and the pictures Sherlock had shown him of a mansion by a pool of crystal clear water had been enough to decimate his shabby intentions to waste his holiday away lounging around the flat. So here he was packing for the both of them (and grumbling as he did so), coming to terms with his decision to spend his time off with the demanding arse John was lucky enough to call his best friend. 

 

The car ride had been tortuous, full of moaning, sulking, and insults, so that by the time John reached the beautiful house Sherlock’s parents had invited them to, he had half a mind to drop Sherlock off and keep driving to somewhere else. To anywhere else. He was strong though, pulling up and shaking hands with the lovely souls who were unfortunate enough to have Mycroft and Sherlock as children instead of running. 

 

“John. Lovely to see you, dear. Hope Sherlock didn’t make too much of a fuss on the ride over.” Mrs. Holmes was lovely, gracious and charming in a way that John only ever saw glimpses of from either of the brothers. 

 

“You know he did.” 

 

“Of course I do. Never has been able to stand spending time with his family, the poor dear.” She winked in an unmistakably Holmesian manner, leading John into the house and showing him to his room. If the whole place was lavish, comfortable, and perfectly understated, the guest room was certainly no exception. God, this was nice. Maybe his holiday would be enjoyable after all.

 

After taking one final glance around the room, John hastily abandoned his bag and joined the Holmes family downstairs for a light lunch. He enjoyed the plate of cold cuts and cheeses, the freshly baked bread, the homemade pickles, and the expensive French wine that Mrs. Holmes lay out before them with a flourish. Sherlock was still sulking (barely speaking, thank God), but John managed to coax some food into him. After all, he assumed he was only invited to be Sherlock’s babysitter. To his surprise, Sherlock wasn’t too difficult with him, eating whatever the doctor deposited on his plate and even scooting his chair closer to John’s for support. The detective didn’t like being around his family, but he liked being around John. John was safe. John was the only thing keeping Sherlock from a complete breakdown. He knew he should be able to control himself, but reigning back this particular feeling was something beyond his capabilities. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that back in London, Sherlock had a life of his own. He took care of himself. He was an adult. And suddenly being back with his family drained him of whatever power he had cultivated during his time on his own. Still, Sherlock had obligations… 

 

The detective stared at his best friend all through their meal, clinging to John’s every word and even sliding his hand to John’s leg underneath the table in search of physical affirmation for their unbreakable connection. 

 

Was Sherlock feeling him up? John jerked away as he felt a hand move to his knee and up his thigh. /Christ./ He was getting hard. Sherlock was making him hard with a single, unexpected touch. _What_ was going on? John’s knee hit the table in shock and arousal, and he cleared his throat before offering the rest of the Holmes family what could only be described as a highly suspicious smile. 

 

“A swim. Sherlock, let’s go for a swim.” 

 

“I’m not going for a swim.”

 

“Take a swim with me.” 

 

“I don’t have a swimsuit.” 

 

“I packed two.”

 

Sherlock sucked on the inside of his cheeks, hollowing them out as he considered John’s offer. 

 

“Fine,” he finally said in indecipherable voice, pushing his plate into the center of the table, standing up, and bounding up the stairs to John’s bedroom. He started rifling though John’s things immediately, not even bothering to turn around when he heard the plodding of John’s feet on the stairs. 

 

“ _Sherlock_.“

 

“What?”

 

“Stop going through my things!” John nudged Sherlock aside and produced the swimsuits he had packed, tossing them on the bed. “Take your pick.” 

 

Sherlock sniffed at what John had laid out, fondling both options before picking a black pair of swim trunks and stripping to change into them. 

 

“ _Christ_ , what’s gotten into you?” 

 

“What?”

 

“First feeling me up at lunch and now taking off your clothes in my bedroom? You aren’t even this bad at home.” 

 

“Feeling you up? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

 

“Sherlock, what is going on?” 

 

“I… I don’t like being… here.” 

 

“Ah… I see. Yes, your mother mentioned that. Not like you hadn’t made it perfectly clear on your own,” John said in a teasing voice, turning his back so he could change into the remaining swimsuit without having his genitals examined like a sample on a microscope slide. 

 

But Sherlock didn’t laugh, or chuckle, or even smile. When John faced him again, his face looked ashen and cold, and his eyes were dark and foreboding. Okay, so John obviously hadn’t said the right thing that time. John sat down on the bed thoughtfully, leaning forward slowly and resting his elbows on his knees. 

 

“Okay… We don’t have to stay. We can go home.” 

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, of course. Get in the car. I’ll drive us back.” 

 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

 

“I know. But I will.” Looking back on the last few hours, and the absolutely painful trip up to the lake, Doctor Watson knew that Sherlock was utterly miserable with his family by the lake. And, all of a sudden, John realized that he hated it more than he could tolerate. 

 

Sherlock smiled for the first time since he had received the invite from his mother, feeling his very being light up with the understanding that John really would do anything for him.

 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, coming close enough to John to let his head fall forward onto the other man’s shoulder for just a moment of gratefulness before he met the the doctor’s eyes playfully. “But I think I’d rather take a swim.” John raised an eyebrow and let out a soft chuckle of disbelief.  Sherlock, who had been so cool and collected up to this point finally let himself evaporate into a flustered schoolboy. “Well, it’s a long car ride back to London. And… things are better with you here.”

 

“I bet they are. You get to seduce me shamelessly. Until my head explodes, that is.”

 

“What?”

 

“I… I was just joking. Although you might want to keep your hands away from my… you know…” John explained, losing his composed demeanor just as much as Sherlock had. 

 

“Not making any promises.” Sherlock gave John a single wink and then he was out the door and on his way to the lake, his doctor following right behind him.


	88. Air conditioning/Summer job - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate prompt! And yes, I do realise we're not in July anymore. Shh, lateness has occurred.

John had chosen the very worst moment to try to make sense of how he'd got in to the situation he was in. Not that it was a bad situation. Definitely not. Standing by an air conditioning unit in the Holmes' manor was not a bad place to be. Especially since the youngest Holmes boy was there with him. Especially _especially_ when the youngest Holmes boy was kissing him and had his hands on some very interesting places.  
  
He was sure he had been minding his own business when Sherlock had approached him and that the looks he had been giving Sherlock all summer had been hidden and sneaky. He was smug in the assumption that Sherlock must have just been overwhelmed by his attraction to John and dragged him inside in a seize-the-day sort of way because there was no way Sherlock had known about the attraction John felt for him. No possible way.  
  
John had held back. Of course he had. He had enough common sense to know that he shouldn't go after his employer's son. He'd taken a summer job as a gardener for the Holmes' and a few of their neighbours. The pay wasn't as good as it could have been, but the thought of being cooped up inside all summer had filled him with such a despair that he had taken the loss of income just so he could feel a little of the freedom working outside offered.  
  
If he had known that one of the perks of his job would include staring at the unbelievably hot Sherlock Holmes, he would have accepted even less money.  
  
If he had known that he'd end up kissing him, he might have accepted no money at all.  
  
The cool air from the air conditioning sent goosebumps across his skin. Or were they from Sherlock's fingers sliding up his shirt?  
  
“Sorry I couldn't wait any longer,” Sherlock murmured.  
  
“What do you mean?” John asked. God, he was a pig but he didn't care what Sherlock was talking about. He just wanted to kiss him and occupy his lips with something beside talking.  
  
“From your slow romancing,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Looking at me from behind leaves. Stopping whatever you were doing if I happened to turn up. It was all very charming. Which romance novel were you acting out?”  
  
“Romance novel?” John echoed back.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said but it started to dawn on him that maybe John had been doing of the sort.

 

“You saw.... hang on, _romance novel_?” John said.  
  
“Yes. Isn't that how they go? The handsome employee lusts for someone inappropriate and struggles with his morals because of it but can't hide what he wants until he finally snaps one day and they shag in the barn. You were taking too long to get to the shagging part so I helped,” Sherlock said.  
  
John stared up at Sherlock with his lips parted in shock. Is that how obvious he had been? “Y-you don't have a barn,” John said for a lack of any other comment.  
  
“Oh, I know. But I have a bedroom upstairs. Much more comfortable for any horizontal activities you might want to do,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Horizontal activities in your bedroom?” John asked, a blush and a smile appearing on his face.  
  
“Yes, John. I believe I will need your assistance immediately upstairs. I think they may be something amiss with my potted plants,” Sherlock said, pleased that John had finally caught on to the plan for the rest of the summer.  



	89. Air conditioning/Summer job - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golfechoromeo is writing one long story based on these prompts, and as this is the penultimate one you should read the first 29 parts first I think =D

_December 28_  
  


Dear Sherlock,

You know I hate to admit when you're right, but you were right about the photo album.  Getting it as a Christmas present was much better than you rushing it to me right after I left.  I had no idea you were taking so many pictures of me while I was there last time.  You sneaky, clever git.  You did a great job on it, by the way.  How much time did you spend on it?  It looks fantastic!  I keep showing it off to everyone here, telling them about my leave.  They're all sick of hearing about the stories because I won't shut up about them.  They do like seeing the pictures though, which is good.  Anna said she thinks you're gorgeous.  I told her to go fuck Georgie again and to back off, because you're mine.  


Send my love and thanks to Mrs. Hudson for the biscuits.  I'm not sharing them with anyone here.  I don't know if she showed you, but she included the ones you made.  They were very unique tasting and looking.   


Hopefully this is the last Christmas where we're apart.  If all goes according to plan, I'll be home for good just before the holiday. 

Your last letter to me was hysterical to me, I hope you know.  You trying to write up that case and sound like me was hilarious.  Don't get me wrong, I was offended by how dumb it sounded and I don't believe I actually write like that.  I think my writing is more sophisticated than that.  Georgie made me read it out loud and they all thought it was a riot.  So thank you for that, you git. 

 

I hope you like the gift I'm sending you. I got it when a bunch of us were away on a short Christmas leave in Kabul.  I thought you could use a nice black leather belt to go with all of your black suits.  Clearly I've been thinking about the way your arse looks in those suits.  Although I've also been thinking of how your arse looks when I've ripped those suits off of you.  


I miss you.

Happy Christmas, Sherlock. 

I love you,

John

P.S. Send more dirty pictures of you.  I love them.  Don't worry.  I don't show those off to the rest of the group.  They are just for me.

 

_July 19_

Dear John,

Thank you for the Bastille Day present.  You really went above and beyond to find things that were bleu, blanc, rouge around your camp.  I have placed the collage of medical supplies arranged in the fashion of the French flag on top of the mantle.   


The weather here lately has been atrocious.  Far too hot for my liking.  You keep complaining of the heat there in Afghanistan but I am sure it does not compare to how hot and miserable I am here in London.  I had to turn on the air conditioning in the flat today and walk around naked just to feel even a little bit cooler than normal.  I sat in your armchair.  Am I enticing you to come home?  


Although I'm not sure I want you to come home because of what you've made me do.  That was a stupid bet and you most assuredly cheated by using Mrs. Hudson to your advantage.  You knew that she would feed you information and would also sabotage my morning routine so that you'd win and I'd have to take up a summer job in Speedy's.  And try to convince me again that it is because you want to make sure I'm keeping busy and my mind active when there aren't any cases on.  I know your game, John Watson.  You just wanted to see the pictures Mrs. Hudson took of me in that ridiculous apron.   


I did not mean what I said about not wanting you to come home.  I always want you to come home.

Is there any chance of you being able to get an early leave for good behaviour?  This way, you can come home and engage in some very bad behaviour with your flatmate.   


It's so excruciatingly hot. 

Come home and make me hotter.

I love you.  Stay safe.  Come home to me.  
  
Sherlock  
  
P.S.  How many days until you are home?  I need the official number.  Send back as soon as you can.


	90. Air conditioning/Summer job - Anne

“Mr. Holmes, I’m here to fix the air conditioning.” 

 

“Hm?” Sherlock’s eyes flickered open only to catch sight of a very attractive, and very bored looking blond bloke with a tool box in his hand. He was spread out on the couch, only now emerging from deep within his mind palace where he had been contemplating some of the complicated specifics of his latest case. “How did you get in? Who called you?”

 

“Your landlady. She told me your unit’s been malfunctioning, and, unless you’d rather bake in this heat, I’d suggest you let me take a look. Name’s John Watson.” 

 

“Fine, but I haven’t noticed any problems.” Sherlock pulled his robe around him and turned his back to the intriguing repairman. The air conditioning wasn’t broken last he checked. /Why/ was this stranger in his personal space, and _why_ had he been disturbed when he was trying to solve a heinous double murder? 

 

More curiously, why hadn’t he sent this man away? 

 

When Sherlock didn’t hear any movement behind him, he twisted his head in the other man’s general direction and grunted impatiently. “Well… Go on, then.” 

 

John, who was obviously a bit shocked by his behavior, gave Sherlock a playful salute before he waltzed into the sitting room and began tinkering with the air conditioning unit. Who had spit in this Holmes bloke’s tea? What exactly was up his arse? 

 

“Ah, yes. I can fix this.” A brown button was wedged into the duct, and while John wasn’t entirely sure if it was even the type of thing that could cause problems, he couldn’t see any other feasible explanation for why the perfectly intact air conditioning unit wasn’t working. 

 

“I’d hope so. That  _is_ your job, correct?” 

 

“Job, yes. Career, no. Just a summer thing… My father’s the electrician.” Too much information. Mr. Holmes clearly didn’t care, and yet John couldn’t seem to stop blabbering. That tended to happen when he was nervous, and being in this surly hottie’s flat was making him very nervous. 

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah. I’m actually training to be a doctor.”

 

“Excellent, Doctor. Fix my air conditioning?” 

 

“Need more time than that to make sure, princess.” 

 

Sherlock huffed, flipping himself onto his back and giving John an amused look. John was interested in him. Interested in him, unimpressed by him, and so lacking in subtlety that Sherlock could almost feel John’s eyes sliding up and down his body.

 

“I get the sense you don’t like me very much.” Not entirely true. "Not like I care. You’re clearly an impoverished, lonely, arrogant dolt.” 

 

“And I get the sense you’re an insufferable, demanding, posh git.”

 

Sherlock looked over at John in complete shock, and then he burst out laughing, the sides of his eyes wrinkling with amusement. He had never gotten that before. He had gotten freak, which was both painful and expected, and he had gotten silence, which was exceptionally common, but he had never gotten anything like the answer he received from John Watson. 

 

“Not the most glamorous summer job, you have there,” the detective said slyly, coming to seated and ripping apart the other man with his eyes. 

 

“No, but I need the money…” 

 

Sherlock shrugged, his lips gathering on one side of his face as he imagined a whole new realm of possibilities involving John Watson. He needed a job? Well, Sherlock needed an assistant. 

 

“Tell me, John. Do you have any interest in murder?” 


	91. Freshly Cut Grass/BBQ - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we have come to the end! Bit late, but better than never =) We'll definitely be doing more of these so subscribe to me if you want to read more of our ficlets!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here comes the last bit of my accidental Kidlock series that started with Two Passports and went on with A trip to the Zoo, Road Trip and Two Bathing Suits.

The Holmes' and John had returned from a very successful trip to Surrey. There had been a few more visits to the kind beekeeper who had indulged Sherlock's interest to the fullest and they'd gone to the beach and to the park and the cinema. They had got along far better than they usually did and Mrs. Holmes gave all the credit to John who served as some sort of link between Sherlock and the rest of the world.   
  
But now their holiday was over and they had come home to a tricky situation. Mr and Mrs Holmes had decided that John was to live with them permanently but by all legal rights John was supposed to go back to living with his parents and his sister. There was no way Mr and Mrs Holmes would allow that to happen, however, so they started to scheme a way to convince what they hoped would be reluctant parents not wanting to let their youngest child go.  
  
The boys were sitting quietly in the freshly cut grass of the garden, each with their own notebook. It had been Mycroft's idea that they encourage the boys to document their holidays to keep up their advancement in language and to encourage creativity of the mind. John had latched on to the idea with gusto and had started off the book with his most favourite story; the airport adventure. The first thing he had done was draw an airplane and then he'd written about how Sherlock had woken him up very early and they'd walked for probably three days before they got to the airport. Sherlock had described the habits of bees in great detail. He was thinking about having his notes published.  
  
“Wasn't it cool when the airplanes took off and they were so big but then the sky is bigger?” John said.  
  
“I gueth, but John, the beeth fly too and the thky ith tho big for them but they thtill try and they make honey. Maybe Mummy will let me have toatht with honey for dinner,” Sherlock said. It was his new favourite thing to eat.   
  
John nodded, understanding completely what Sherlock was saying. Even though their current interests were quite far apart in subject, they found ways of relating them to each other's.   
  
“Once my dad made chicken on the barbeque that had honey on it,” John said. Sometimes he missed his dad but then he had so much fun with Sherlock and Sherlock's dad that he didn't miss him at all. He missed his mum more but Sherlock's mum was so nice and gave him so many juice boxes that he was distracted from that, too.  
  
“Honey on chicken?” Sherlock said. “ _Mummy!”_ he shouted. He sprang up and ran to find his mummy.  
  
She was in the kitchen, finishing up a phone call to John 's mother.  
  
“Yes, we'll come by later today to get more of his things. The boys will be so happy to see you. Oh it was no problem, it was mostly for the sake of our own sanity. You know how Sherlock can get. Yes. Yes, we'll see you later then. Bye for now. Bye,” she said. She hung up the receiver and grinned. She had told Mrs. Watson that she had looked into scholarships at the school Sherlock was going to and had found one that had accepted John. She hadn't  _really_ lied when it came to the reason for it; she had done it partly because Sherlock would not have coped well with being separated from John (and their sanity would have taken a beating from the dramatics that would ensue) but it was mostly to protect John and give him a better life than what was on offer for him if he moved back home.   


“Mummy,” Sherlock said crossly.  
  
“Sherlock,” she said.  
  
“You never told me you can put honey on chicken. John told me that he had barbequed chicken with honey on and you _never ever ever told me_ ,” Sherlock said. He had his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
“That sounds nice. Shall we have that for dinner tonight?” she asked. She was in the mood to give into anything Sherlock asked of her.  
  
“Yeth. Yeth we shall. We will altho have baked potatoeth and _no green beanth_ ,” Sherlock said. 

 

“Baked potatoes and absolutely no green beans,” Mrs. Holmes said, nodding. She wrote it down on her shopping list and then recruited Mycroft to look after the boys while she quickly ran to the shops. She also got the store-made chocolate cake as a treat. Tonight, they would celebrate.   
  
Later in the afternoon when she had put chicken breasts to marinate she sat John and Sherlock down and told them about their new school. They would live there and learn and then come home on the school holidays.  
  
“I will live with John,” Sherlock said, his face growing into a pout. If they put him in a room with another boy he would run away.  
  
“Yes,” Mrs. Holmes said. She had already had that conversation with the school.   
  
“Do I have to go home on the holidays?” John asked, staring in to his lap. He didn't want to go home where his dad was so mad all the time.   
  
“Yes, but your home will be here. Your Mummy and Daddy can come visit you here,” Mrs. Holmes said.  
  
“Here?” both the boys said at once.  
  
“Yes. We'll go in a little bit to get your things, John, if you want to live here,” Mrs. Holmes said. 

 

The crossest person in the whole house was Sherlock and Sherlock was John's best friend. He hadn't been yelled at once since he had started sleeping over at the Holmes'. “Yes,” John said. He burst into tears.  
  
An hour later they turned into the drive way of John's parent's house. The garden looked a little worse for the wear and the grass needed to be cut.   
  
“John!” Mrs. Watson called as she ran out out the house and picked up her son in her arms.  
  
“Hi, mum, can I have a biscuit?” he asked.   
  
“Of course you can. Your dad's sleeping,” she said.  
  
Mrs. Holmes wondered why she had said that until she saw some tension melt away from John's little shoulders.   
  
“Can Sherlock have one?” he asked.  
  
“Why don't we all have a biscuit?” Mrs. Watson said.   
  
John squirmed out of her arms and walked inside. Mrs. Holmes thought that was curious too, seeing as John was always running. He seemed altogether more reserved and quiet.   
  
The boys had milk and biscuits while the two mothers had tea. There was a faint smell of alcohol in the kitchen but it was spotlessly clean.   
  
“Are you looking forward to your new school, Johnny?” Mrs. Watson asked.  
  
“Yes. There's cadets there,” John said.   
  
“You'll enjoy that,” Mrs. Watson said. Her father had been a soldier; the interest seemed to be genetic.  
  
“Yes. I like it. Sherlock said he doesn't like it so he's going to do music,” John said.  
  
“Yeth. The violin. It'th very delicate work, Mrth, Watthon,” Sherlock said.   
  
“You'll be very good at it,” Mrs. Watson said. Sherlock shone with the compliment.  
  
“Mum, will you visit me on holidays?” John asked.  
  
“Of course I will. I'll come see you. I'll bring Harry,” she said.  
  
“Don't bring dad,” John said, staring into his lap as was his way when he was speaking of things that made him uncomfortable emotionally.   
  
“I won't bring dad. It'll just be me and Harry,” she promised. She would lie to Mr. Watson if that's what it took.  


  
After tea and biscuits, they moved to John's room and packed up a suitcase of his favourite things and things he might need. Mrs. Watson kept a cheerful tone even though it hurt her to see her son move out from her home many years before she had planned for it. But it had to be done.  
  
There was never any question of waking John's dad to say goodbye. 

 

“Bye, mum,” John said. He was deeply uncomfortable. He wanted to leave in case his dad woke up but it was also hard to leave his mum behind.  
  
Mrs. Watson held her son tight and whispered that she loved him and that they would see each other soon. Despite her husband, she was a strong woman and she held back the tears burning in her eyes. She wouldn't make this a sad occasion for John. He was going to be happy and there was no room for guilt in that.  
  
Mrs. Watson hugged a reluctant Sherlock and then Mrs. Holmes.  
  
“Thank you,” she whispered and Mrs. Holmes realised she had probably not outsmarted Mrs. Watson like she thought she had. They had both been manipulating the situation in their own way for John's sake.

The ride home was quiet. John looked out the window and Sherlock looked at John. Even though he sometimes fought with his Mummy and Daddy he would still be sad if he moved out of their house so he knew John must be sad too.

  
“Cake,” Mrs. Holmes said when she couldn't handle the look on John's face anymore.  
  
“Cake, Mummy?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Yes. Cake. I bought a cake. It's for dessert but well have a slice when we get home as a pre-supper treat. We'll sit outside in the garden and you can tell me about airplanes and bees,” she said.  _And everything will be happy and alright_ , she thought determinedly.

 

And that was what happened. The boys got a large piece of cake each to eat while Mrs. Holmes fired up the barbeque. When Mr. Holmes joined them they played a complicated game of planes and bees which involved a lot of running around and flapping of arms. The honey chicken went down a treat with Sherlock despite the fact that he'd been rather full from cake and for the first time he had seconds.  
  
“Thankth, mummy,” he said when she served it to him. The look on his face told her it wasn't about the chicken at all.  
  
“Thank _you_ ,” she said back.  
  
They were all grateful for John Watson.

 

 


	92. Freshly Cut Grass/BBQ - Golfechoromeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the very last chapter of Golfechoromeo's story... is now.

Sherlock awoke one morning, months later and, out of habit, looked beside him in the bed.  

Empty. 

_John should be here_ , Sherlock thought, unable to keep the thought form his brain.  That day, of all days, it was hard not to think of that.  There were other things Sherlock needed to focus on, however.  Things he needed to do before he left the flat. 

Mrs. Hudson's footsteps could be heard downstairs, moving through her flat.  She was clearly filled with nerves and every so often, the faint sound of a nose being blown into a tissue could be heard from the lower level.  That was more emotion than Sherlock could handle.  He would need to avoid her at all costs.

Sherlock was very careful as he got out of bed,  his eyes doing everything to avoid the shirt, jacket, and trousers than had been laid out for him by Mrs. Hudson.  The last thing he wanted was to get too into his head about what he would have to do in a few hours.  So, with deliberately cautious movements, Sherlock averted his eyes and left the room, needing to busy himself.

When Mrs. Hudson came upstairs an hour later, Sherlock was deeply immersed into research, beakers and slides spread out across the table, mountains of blades of grass were piled around, and an odd smell was emanating from whatever was steaming in the mug at the end of the table. 

"What's the grass for?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her curiosity getting the better off her.

"Observing the effects of photosynthesis on the chlorophyll," Sherlock said, placing a blade of grass on a slide.  "Based on different locations around London.  Fresh cut grass would work more effectively, but I have to make do with what I have.  I _could_ go out and get some now..."

 

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said in a half-hearted attempt at scolding him, but she couldn't even bring herself to mean it that day.  "Don't you think you should be getting ready?"

"Why?"

"Sherlock Holmes, you have to."

"Mrs. Hudson, I am very aware of what I have to do today.  I do not need the reminder."

"Alright," Mrs. Hudson said, looking at him carefully.  "If you need someone to talk to-"

"Why would I need someone to talk to?"

Mrs. Hudson looked at him and knew who Sherlock would have wanted to talk to, if he could.  That, however, was not an option.  "If you need to," she repeated before patting his arm and walking back downstairs.

Sherlock watched her go, his head starting to catch up to him in the moment.  Though he hated to admit it it to anyone, especially himself, Mrs. Hudson had been right.  There were things that needed to be done and he needed to get ready.  Walking into the bathroom to shower, Sherlock's eyes moved into his bedroom and he again saw the clothes he would need to wear.  _John always wrote about preferring me in a suit_.

"Into battle," he said.  
  
  


Mycroft was waiting for him outside of the church when Sherlock arrived.  He knew the others were already inside, waiting.

"You really didn't need to come to this, Mycroft," Sherlock said, trying to put on a brave face while internally very relieved his brother was there.

"Sherlock, spare me," Mycroft said with an air of finality.  "Are you ready?"

With a sweeping look at the front of the church, Sherlock felt himself assaulted with an onslaught of memories and emotions for which he had not been prepared.  Knowing that Mycroft would probably roll his eyes, but not caring, Sherlock slid his phone out of his pocket.  Quickly, he snapped a picture of the church and ignored the sigh from Mycroft beside him.

"Showing sentiment," Mycroft said.  "How touching."

"Yes," Sherlock said, the music starting to sound from inside the church, immediately sounded by someone blowing her nose very loudly. 

"Mrs. Hudson seems well prepared," Mycroft said.

"More than I am," Sherlock admitted.

Mycroft turned and looked at his brother.  "Sherlock, you and I both know that this is what is needed.  While I acknowledge that it is a silly tradition and is almost always meaningless, in this case, I don't believe that to be the case.  It is not meaningless to you, nor to the people inside...Nor to me."

Sherlock looked in awe at his brother, taken aback by the words of emotion. 

"Now _please_ can we go inside and continue with this?" Mycroft asked, keen to put what he had just said behind them both. .

"Yes," Sherlock said, breathing deeply.  "I'm ready."

Mycroft nodded and walked forward.  He opened the door to the church, and all heads turned towards them.  Sherlock saw none of them.  They all faded into the background.  They were just onlookers to the occasion. Sherlock saw nothing except for the face at the front of the church.

 

All nerves disappeared.  After all, what in the world was nerve-wracking about marrying John Watson?  
  
  


When Sherlock emerged from the church, hands clasped, both of them with smiles so big their cheeks were starting to hurt, though neither of them cared at all.  The ceremony had gone without a hitch.  There had been laughter and tears from all people in the church (including, to everyone's surprise, both of the Holmes brothers), and it had ended with a rather spectacular kiss before John and Sherlock emerged together into the dazzling summer sun.

"Sleep well last night?" John asked conversationally, looking up at his new husband.

"Miserably," Sherlock said, the smile on his face not reflecting his statement whatsoever.  "I have gotten so accustomed to waking with you next to me.  How was sleeping at Greg's?"

"Just awful," John said, cheerfully.  "Mrs. Hudson told me you were nervous this morning.  Doing experiments in the kitchen?  Did you get cold feet, Sherlock?"

The detective scoffed.  "Of course not," he said.  "I was merely occupying my mind because I knew that if I were to think too much about the ceremony, I would get into my own head too much and would fail to perform when reciting my vows."

"They were excellent, by the way," John said in compliment.  "I especially liked the bit where you promised to _try_ to never leave me at a crime scene and if you did, you would _try_ to remember to return for me."

"Well, I needed to remain practical and logical," Sherlock said.  "I couldn't promise you something I was unsure if I would be able to keep.  Like your promise not to get too frustrated with me when I am in a mood."

"Not to get _too_ frustrated," John clarified.  "I'll still get frustrated.  No one frustrates me more than you do, you git."

"I love you, too."

John beamed at Sherlock happily as they got into the car that would take them to the reception, taking place in the same field where John's welcome home party had taken place two years earlier.  It was to be a casual affair, only their closest friends and family in attendance, Greg having a few of the Yarders barbecuing food for the guests. 

Everyone applauded loudly as John and Sherlock arrived, stepping out of the car, looking rather dashing in their suits with white rose boutonnieres, still holding hands and looking ridiculously happy.  Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Mycroft stood together and looked on in admiration.

"Well then," Mycroft said.  "I think it time we settle the wager."

"Oh, hush," Mrs. Hudson said, still dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose.  Her boys.  _Married_.  Nothing in the world had ever made her happier.  "You let me enjoy the moment, Mycroft."

"Yeah, Myc," Greg said.  "Sod off."

"If you both think you can get out of paying me my winnings, you are sorely mistaken," Mycroft replied.  "Today was the day.  By the end of the wedding, once it officially came to pass, you would both need to pay me for being right about the engagement wager."

"Do you have to keep rubbing it in?" Greg grumbled.

"I do," Mycroft said smugly.  "Mrs. Hudson was wrong that John would propose first, ridiculous that he would be able to beat Sherlock to anything.  And you, Gregory, were foolish to think that Sherlock would propose first, that John would ever allow that."

"So what?" Greg asked, confrontationally.  "Mrs. Hudson and I were both supposed to know, like you did apparently,  that they'd propose at the exact same moment?"

"Of course," Mycroft said, indignantly.  "It should have been obvious to everyone that they would both propose immediately upon seeing each other again, once John had returned home for good."

"We'll settle it later," Mrs. Hudson said.  "Can't we just enjoy this, Mycroft?  Your brother is _married_!  And hopefully," she said, giving a sly eye between Greg and Mycroft, "You'll be next."  She walked away giggling, leaving the other two standing awkwardly holding their champagne glasses and avoiding eye contact.

Sherlock and John were oblivious to this exchange as they moved through the open field, pausing occasionally to talk to people who congratulated them.  They were as gracious as possible before walking away, wanting to be alone together to revel in the fact that their rings were physical proof that they were bound to each other. 

"Your arse looks spectacular in that suit, by the way," John said.  "I'm glad we didn't go with the tuxedos."

"I am of the opinion," Sherlock said with an air of arrogance, "That your arse looks spectacular in anything that you wear."

"Oh, shut up," John said, grinning.  "Is this what married life is going to like?  Us bickering back and forth?" 

"Is that really so different than what life is like for us normally?"

"I guess not," John conceded.  "Only now there's the added bonus of sex."

"Yes," Sherlock said, looking at John hungrily.  "Are you sure you don't want to stay in a hotel to celebrate?" he asked, eying John skeptically. 

"Sherlock, I was away from the flat for three years. Sleeping in a bed that wasn't ours.  I don't want to spend our first night together has husbands anywhere else."

Sherlock was about to argue the point, that there would be plenty of nights for them to share in the flat, that he did his research and the wedding night was supposed to be a momentous occasion, couples usually booking a lavish hotel room, but he suddenly found himself unable to talk at all.  John had sensed the argument brewing and decided to seize the opportunity to kiss his way out of it, keeping Sherlock's lips busy with kissing so that they weren't causing any discord between them. 

"That won't get you out of everything," Sherlock said as he pulled back after a few passionate seconds.  "But it definitely doesn't hurt.  Kiss me again, John."

John was a good soldier and followed his orders.

 


	93. Freshly Cut Grass/BBQ - Anne

John loved the smell of fresh cut grass, the way his knees got stained green, and the sweat that made his hair stick to his forehead and cheeks. John really loved playing rugby. He was especially enjoying the casual rugby game at the Holmes' BBQ. The Holmes’ were socialites, well known around the town for both their intelligence and influence, and they were hosting a massive off-to-university party for their younger son. 

 

And Sherlock Holmes was hot. 

 

Well… brilliant and talented and interesting and John had always wanted to get to know him. And John really didn’t want to snog his face off. Because John was not gay. 

 

Okay, John was a bit gay, and he had actually managed to come to terms with it. Honestly, it was a bit hard to ignore his urges given the general reaction he had to Sherlock’s life altering arse. In that respect, he supposed all those years of unsatisfied sexual frustration had actually led to something positive. 

 

Fortunately for John, he had moved on from his silly crush on Sherlock. Spending his first year in university away from that precocious twat had done John well. He had slept with all sorts of beautiful men and women, savored every type of luscious arse and buried his face in all sorts of boobs. That was what university was for. Luckily for John, as well as go overboard in the realms of sex and drinking, he had also maintained high grades that meant that his dream of becoming a doctor was becoming less dream and more reality. Of course, his minor academic successes hadn’t stopped him from getting a grunt work summer job at a construction site to pay for part of his next term. but John was confident internships would follow for the next summer. When he graduated, he would get a good job as a doctor, he would do well for himself, and, perhaps most importantly, he would be free of the inexplicable need he felt to impress Sherlock. 

 

At the moment, though, (while he was certainly “over” Sherlock) he was still a bit under Sherlock’s spell. And he wasn’t very good at being subtle. 

 

It had all began when some of the other blokes had suggested playing a friendly game of rugby. John couldn’t help it that he loved rugby, or that he was playing rugby at university and becoming quite a formidable player. He didn’t see the point in pretending to lose, or relaxing, or in controlling his urges for that matter. Chances were after the summer ended, Sherlock would get shipped off to Cambridge, and they would never have the opportunity to talk again. Here was his chance. His last chance. 

 

John didn’t let his last chance go to waste, for while the BBQ was for Sherlock, everyone’s attention quickly moved to John Watson. He was a brilliant player, a fish in water, a ravenous tiger, a champion among men. All the blokes had gotten into the game in the spirit of competition (except Sherlock), and then most of them had left, tired of having their arses whooped by the university rugby superstar. John's shirt was wet with sweat, he smelled strongly of dirt and grass, and he had those characteristic grass stains on his knees that he loved so much. 

 

To make John’s rush of happiness even better, he noticed that Sherlock was watching him play with the others, cataloguing his every move with catlike eyes, and storing the information away with a seductive smirk. John couldn’t help but jog over to the tall genius after a while; besides, because Sherlock was standing by the drinks, a glass of ice tea made him an excellent excuse. 

 

“Hey! Nice party.”

 

“I’m not exactly partial to parties.”

 

“It’s for you, though. Wish my parents had done that… Instead I got a kick in the arse.” If they had both been smiling before the conversation started, then John and Sherlock were beaming now that they were in each other’s company. 

 

“My mother is popular. Doesn’t mean these _people_ are my friends. I don’t have friends.” The truth was that the majority of his classmates barely even tolerated him, and most tormented him ruthlessly, although John wasn’t one of those. 

 

“I’m your friend.” The ice clinked innocently in John’s glass as he slurped down the liquid greedily. God, there was nothing better than rugby and ice tea on a sunny Sunday in August. 

 

“Mm, no, you aren’t. You barely know me.” 

 

“Well, that wasn’t my fault,” John remarked with a laugh, wiping some of the sweat off his brow with the hem of his t-shirt, which he then pulled off and discarded completely, to Sherlock’s shock and amusement. “I was and still am perfectly willing to be friends.” John flipped his hair out of his face and gave Sherlock his sexiest, most charming smile. “What do you say, Sherlock?” 

 

Sherlock shook his head and chuckled lightly. Fuck, John was fit, and he was throwing himself at Sherlock pretty shamelessly. 

 

“Friendship? Is that what you want?” John nodded at the gentle teasing, his eyes twinkling. He had performed well in the game, and now he got to have the complete attention of the most wonderful bloke he had ever met. 

 

“Fine. We’re friends then.” Sherlock smiled at John flirtatiously, going so far as to run his fingers down John’s bare chest. “So… friend. You are an impressive rugby player.” 

 

“Oh, that? That was nothing. We were just horsing around.” Sherlock batted his eyelashes playfully, bringing one hand to John’s upper arms to publicly admire the muscles there. 

 

“Well,  _I’m_ impressed.” John’s heart skipped a beat, and he took a step even closer to the young genius. Sherlock was definitely flirting with him now. It was unmistakable. 

 

“Wasn’t trying to impress you.”

 

“You weren’t?”

 

“Course not…” Yes, he had obviously been trying to impress Sherlock, but John didn’t see what he got for admitting it. 

 

“Oh…”

 

“I mean… I like you. A lot.” 

 

“I like you too.” 

 

“Wondered if you wanted to… go to the cinema. Or on a walk. Or something…” John was… asking Sherlock Holmes out on a date… A few weeks before they both had to go back to school and subsequently to their own lives apart. 

 

“You really waited until the last minute, didn’t you? It’s been… years.” Sherlock was confused and enflamed with passion. It oozed out of the cracks in his being and flooded his head until he couldn’t quite think straight. John Watson, the older boy next door, was  _really_ asking him out. 

 

“We still have the summer to spend together,” John offered in consolation, following Sherlock’s lead into the lavish house carefully. He couldn’t help the still hadn’t received an answer. 

 

“Summer is ending.” The words were no louder than a whisper, sufficiently stomping out the childishness of going on a first date and replacing it with a  very adult fear of loss. Sherlock suddenly wanted to ditch the BBQ altogether to go sulk in the privacy of his own room, but he knew that wouldn’t be permitted of him. His life was getting a little crazy, and his parents certainly expected a lot. 

 

“Yes,” John conceded, resuming his role as the eternal optimist. “But this is not the end.” 


End file.
